A World Without Ducks
by alienated lycanthrope
Summary: What would happen if Bombay was never nabbed by the police? What would happen if there were no Ducks?
1. Preface

I just wanted to say a few things before you guys start on my story, and I find I like to use a preface instead of tacking it on to the first chapter; it's kinda messy, and besides, this way I can delude myself into thinking I'm a real writer. Feel free to skip right to chapter one if I bore you.  
  
As I mentioned before, the idea behind this story came while I was writing the cabin chapters of BBL, and I've had a non-stop influx of ideas since then. Basically, I'm using the same characters from my BB stories--that is, they are the exact same people they were in those fics, except that here I've extrapolated their personalities into who I think they would be if there were never any Ducks. In my opinion, not many of these changes (none that I can think of off-hand) are for the better, and in the case of Fulton especially, things are pretty messed up. As a result, this story will likely be far darker than my previous ventures, at least in the beginning. It will feature some hard drug usage, as well as other stuff, so you are forewarned. Things will lighten up a bit as my Bashies get acquainted, but I hope to keep a bit of an edge.  
  
I want to make sure that this fic distinguishes itself from my BB stories, and so I am also going to be experimenting a bit with different stylistic elements. It would be a hell of a lot of work to try it all out beforehand, so I ask you to bear with me if the style is in a state of flux for awhile.  
  
Now, I don't know anything about Minnesota, except that it's situated under Ontario, and that its residents appreciate hockey almost as much as my fellow countrymen. I don't know how big it is, nor its crime statistics or anything. The Duck's neighbourhood has been heavily inspired by Vancouver's downtown eastside. It's Canada's poorest postal code, and though Vancouver is a relatively small city, it ranks up there pretty high (top ten, somewhere) for the continent, though the murder rates are nowhere near those of the States, for obvious reasons. I walk there pretty often at night, and well... I could ramble on forever about how sick it is to erect high-end shops and yuppie condo complexes half a block from where hundreds of people walk around in bare feet cause they sold their shoes for a rock, but I won't. I'll just try and let it come through in my story.  
  
A few notes before we begin:  
  
Cake-Eater: Happy graduation, you little Duckie girl! Johnny will be playing a largish role in this story... I hope that pleases you. *I ate ZigZag for lunch. Mmmm...*  
  
Kelly: I forgot to ask you: Did you catch Emilio Estevez at Game six of the finals? If not, let me know; there are some things he said that I have to share with you!  
  
RockandRoll: Yes indeed, I REALLY like the whole Fulton/Portman thing, they do it for me in every way imaginable, and many unimaginable ones, as well. But I am also a big fan of you, so don't drag out the sabbatical for too long, okay?  
  
No bottles: Thanks for the beta and reviews, you guys rock! MORE CHADAM, unless you want me to make good on the threats I have made to each of you. Pizza for Melissa, bomb threat set-up for Kylie!  
  
Schizzie: My very first collaborator: I don't know how it compares to what you've got up your sleeve, but I hope you like!  
  
Star: I don't really have anything particular to say to you, but you rock, so I felt I should include you for that fact alone. Look for a little "ego- erotica" in chapter two.  
  
Spaz-chick99: Hey, great idea about a Charlie POV. No promises, but I'll stick it in the idea mill and see if anything comes out.  
  
Grasshopper: I'm glad you like my fics, and I too, have never been one for the C/A, but that one just caught me by surprise. Sequel pending? Still undecided.  
  
Selena: Hey, did you see that we're award buddies! Yay, us!  
  
And a kind thank you to all my reviewers, as well as all those who voted for my stories. It was cool to know that Johnny has some fans, I thought it was only Quimby.  
  
Okay, now that that's off my chest, without further ado, I give you A World Without Ducks. Enjoy! 


	2. A new beginning

Fulton's POV:  
  
Do you remember where you were when your life began? I don't mean in the biological sense, because that would be impossible, plus there'd be the whole "At what point does a fetus become a human being?" question to worry about. No, I mean the point where you realised why you were put on Earth in the first place, your purpose in life, or whatever. After you've found that, it's like everything that happened before becomes sort of vague, like memories that belong to someone else.  
  
That's what it was like for me, anyway, and now, looking back at my life before it began was like looking at my reflection in a really dirty mirror. I can barely recognise the Fulton before me. Sure, I'm the same person I was, but everything is so different now that for the most part he's gone, that earlier me. He just packed up and left one day, and you know what? I don't even miss him. He seemed so incomplete, like he was waiting for something to come along, but I guess it was someone. Like those guys in that play, Waiting for Godot, sitting on the bench, just waiting...  
  
Me, I didn't even know what it was I was waiting for, and so when my life began, I wasn't what you would call prepared. In fact, I wasn't even what you would call awake. You see, I'd been out pretty late the night before, and so I must have missed my homeroom teacher announce the arrival of a new student...  
  
***  
  
It was a head-splitting mechanical version of Who Let the Dogs Out that roused me from my slumbers, as the cell phone of a kid in front of me went off, but it was the familiar sounds of Slash's killer guitar and Axel Rose's vocal chords being shredded that kept me there. I glanced around me, looking for the source; I didn't have to look for long. Two seats over on my left was a boy I'd never seen before. I use the term "boy" very lightly here, because he was at least a couple inches taller than me, and while nowhere near as bulky, he was still gigantic. He was dressed all in black, from his motorcycle boots to his bandanna, with tightly pegged jeans and a sleeveless t-shirt that showed off a biohazard symbol tattooed to his incredibly sculpted right bicep. A black leather jacket was draped over his chair; it was heavily scuffed and adorned with several buttons and slogans that I couldn't make out from where I was sitting.  
  
His muscles were tight and very lean; it was obvious that he worked out or played sports (probably both), but if I didn't know any better, I'd say he was a dancer or something. I laughed the thought out of my head as soon as it appeared, but I still couldn't shake my initial impression. It sure wasn't his posture; the kid was slouched in his chair, his legs splayed out into the aisle so that anyone wanting to pass had to make a detour. There was something though, a grace or fluidity about him, that seemed to suggest that his body was an instrument of some kind.  
  
Now, I don't want you thinking that it was love at first sight, because it wasn't, just interest. The bell rang, and I watched him rise from his chair, shrug on his jacket, and strut out into the hallway. A group of kids gathered by the lockers hailed him over excitedly, and he sauntered over to join them.  
  
I can imagine what you're thinking to yourselves: Strut? Saunter? I'm not trying to be bombastic, though; he really did move like that, with complete confidence. The kids who had called him over were losers, for the most part, wannabe bad-asses with no brains and no guts, just a lot of machismo. If the new kid was going to join their ranks, I'd have to keep a close watch on them; they liked to push people around. Not as bad as the rich kids, but this guy could definitely inflict some damage if he wanted to, and it looked as if he might want to. He grabbed something from his locker and slammed it shut with an echoing bang, before turning on his heel and heading for the back doors--this time it was more of a swagger--with his fan club close behind.  
  
First day at a new school and he was already walking around like he owned the place. I leaned against the wall as I watched him go; people were filing past me and milling around, but all I could see was him. What's your story, kid? I thought to myself as he disappeared around the corner and I shrugged off the effects and made my way toward the bathroom.  
  
***  
  
"Hey Charlie, man, you catch a look of that new kid in homeroom?"  
  
"Pretty hard to miss. What is he, eight feet tall?"  
  
"Give or take an inch. Looks kinda hard-core, don't he? What'd Monroe say his name was?"  
  
"Uh, Dean Portman, I think."  
  
"No shit! I know that kid, he just joined my hockey team."  
  
Though I couldn't see who was talking, I knew their voices well enough: Charlie Conway, Jesse Hall, and Guy Germaine. It helped that they were always together. It was Guy who had spoken last, and my ears pricked up at his words.  
  
"You mean your rich-ass, cake-eating hockey team. How'd he manage that?"  
  
"McGillis saw him playing for the Knights; he was with them till he moved. Only reason the coach let him join is cause we really need an enforcer, and well... look at him."  
  
"Just like the only reason you're on the team is cause they needed another big goal-scorer when Banks got hurt."  
  
"Leave it Jesse, it's not his fault they recruited him; I doubt you'd have passed up the opportunity if McGillis came to you."  
  
"Anyway, you two had better watch out tonight; the coach has been prepping this guy for battle all week."  
  
I figured I had heard all I needed to hear, so I opened the stall door. Charlie and Guy were leaning against the far wall, and Jesse was washing his hands at one of the sinks.  
  
"I'll bet," he muttered as he splashed water on his hair and ran his fingers through it hurriedly. "If that goon doesn't take all of us out tonight, McGillis'll probably pay Fulton to break our kneecaps, or something. I don't know why he has to..." His voice trailed off when he saw me standing there, and though his eyes widened considerably, he stood his ground.  
  
Charlie stepped forward. "Sorry Fulton, we didn't know you were in here." He looked nervous, but only slightly. I just shrugged and walked past them to the sinks. Ever since juvie hall, I've had this thing about pissing in front of people; I never used public urinals unless no one else was around.  
  
When I turned to go, Jesse called out uncertainly, "Hey man, I didn't mean to diss you or anything. I just..."  
  
"Forget about it," I muttered. As the door swung shut behind me, I could hear Charlie's voice: "See? I told you guys."  
  
***  
  
I watched the game that night from my usual vantage point high up in the bleachers, away from everybody else, and before the first period was over, I had come to two simple conclusions: the new kid at school, #21, Dean Portman, was insane. He was also one of the best natural hockey players I had seen in a long time. Who knew?  
  
For one thing, it was obvious he was under strict instructions from Tim McGillis, the Hawks' coach, but that didn't seem to bother him in the least. Whenever he was on the ice, he was the hardest-working player out there, and though he logged damn near thirty minutes of ice time, he never seemed to tire. Relentlessly he worked the corners, making hit after hit after hit. Several of them were pretty serious, and the victims had to be helped off the ice, but I was surprised by the degree of control and discretion he maintained through it all. He clocked some major penalty time, of course, but none of the checks were overtly cheap or malicious, and he noticeably checked the speed and force of his hits on all but the Swordfishes' largest players.  
  
He didn't score any goals, but that was through no fault of his own; whenever he got control, I could hear McGillis yelling at him to give it up to one of the others. His passes were always bang-on, and he had amazing hands in front of the net; he moved with a swiftness and agility that belied his size. He was also an astonishingly selfless player; he did all the work in getting the puck, but time and time again he gave it up to one of his team mates, as was evidenced by the four assists he marked.  
  
As if all of this weren't enough, he was also the wildest, most exuberant, most thoroughly entertaining player I'd ever seen. He was constantly yelling stuff at the crowd, as well as at both teams, and though I cheered for the Swordfish as I always did (without actually cheering, of course), I couldn't help but smile every time the Hawks scored, because it meant I got to see this Portman guy whoop and holler while he circled the ice in a victory lap or two. He didn't seem to notice the scowls and looks of disdain most of the team, McGillis included, kept shooting him; you could tell they'd had no idea what they were getting themselves into when they'd picked him up.  
  
Good on you kid, I thought to myself as I left the arena after a predictably crushing 7-1 defeat for the Fishies, as I affectionately referred to them. After tonight, you could bet I'd have my eye on Dean Portman.  
  
It was only 10:30, hardly time to go home, so I walked along, my skateboard under one arm, Pearl Jam's 10 on my headphones slicing through the cold night air like a knife in butter. I stopped by the skate park, but there were still some kids hanging around, twisting out to the Dropkick Murphy's.  
  
I've never been real big on crowds, so I left the park and headed instead for the network of alleys and side streets that ran through my neighbourhood. I stopped by the abandoned building on the corner of Davie-- it used to be a community centre before it burned down years ago--just long enough to pick up the stick and bag of pucks I kept stashed there. I couldn't keep them at my house; if my dad ever found out I had them... well, I wouldn't let him find out.  
  
I found an alley that suited my purpose, so I dropped my gear and started hunting for a goal of some kind. Finding none, I opted instead for a couple of rocks to use as markers. I set the puck down at my feet and stood there a moment, clearing my mind. I reached for my stick, feeling its comforting weight, relishing the way my fingers seemed to fuse to the wood, finding purchase along minuscule grooves that fit the contours of my hand like a glove. The stick became an extension of my arms, and as I drew back for my shot, I felt all those familiar feelings begin to wash over me.  
  
First there was the moment of contact, that one glorious microsecond where wood and rubber met, and the ecstasy was almost unbearable. Then there was the exhilaration as I could literally feel the transfer of energy from the stick to the puck. This was followed by the immense satisfaction that came from making a perfect shot, and without even catching a glimpse of the puck, I knew it was never coming back.  
  
This emotional chain reaction was nothing new; it happened to me every time I played, and I had heard baseball players describe very similar effects when they hit a home run. For me, there was no greater feeling; when I was shooting, it was almost a spiritual experience. Feelings of perfection and enlightenment came together to make me feel somehow connected to the world around me. It was as if everything were synchronised momentarily, like there was a cadence to which all life on Earth moved, and I had tapped into it. The world rotated on its axis at a speed of 1,037 miles per hour, and for those few precious moments surrounding my shot, I spun right along with it.  
  
***  
  
A few hours later, I finally packed up my stick and two remaining pucks, and headed for home, my muscles humming like telephone wires. I sure go through pucks pretty fast, I thought to myself as I dropped the gear back at my hidey-hole. I knew it came from shooting out into the street, but whenever I tried facing back into the alley, I nearly took my head off with my own ricochets.  
  
When I reached my place, I could hear noises coming from inside; my father was yelling drunkenly at the TV, and he must have had some friends over as well, because I could make out coarse laughter and the clinking of bottles. This was a ritual of sorts, as it was the first Friday of the month when welfare cheques came out, and that always meant an eighty-proof good time at the taxpayers' expense.  
  
I slipped silently through the basement window and retreated to my room, careful not to make any noise to alert my father that I was home. Normally I stayed out all night on Welfare Day, but I was cold, and I wanted a bed, so I just rolled a joint and toked on that while I tripped out on the brutally satirical lyricism of William S. Burroughs' Naked Lunch.  
  
And so passed the first day of the rest of my life. Though I didn't know it at the time, my life had already begun to change, and I doubt I could have stopped it if I'd wanted to. Not to say, mind you, that I'd ever want to. 


	3. Angel

*Okay, so this is a long chapter. Sue me; I had a lot to say. After I wrote this, I came across a song that fits so perfectly with this chapter, that I figure I must have been channelling Fred Durst when I wrote it. Actually, it's only the middle section, but I'm sure you'll figure that out when you get there.*  
  
Went too fast, way too soon, I feel disgusted and you should too. It's no good when all that's left is the sex... the sex. Sex has become all I know about you, Memories of those filthy things that we do. There is not one single thought that is left after sex with you. Should have left my pants on this time, But instead you had to let me dive right in. It's my ass, your perfume, that make temptation hard to refuse. So I guess we undressed to have sex... dirty sex. Should have left my pants on this time, But instead you had to let me dive right in. How could you respect yourself? You couldn't respect yourself, Cuz I didn't respect myself, I couldn't infect myself. I realise that I'm worth more than that.  
  
--"No Sex" by Limp Bizkit  
  
Portman's POV:  
  
What do you do when you come home to find that you mother has brought not one, but two guys back from the bar where she works for a little after- hours entertainment? If you're me, you get wet, get laid, break up with your girlfriend, narrowly escape death at the hands of your one true love, get really stoned and go to sleep with a smile on your face.  
  
After 17 years of living with my mother, I was used to her ways, but it was still with some surprise that I opened the door of our new apartment to behold a very stocky, very hairy, very naked man in the kitchen. There was an unopened bottle of beer on the counter, and the man, whose hair was a bright, flaming orange, was opening all the drawers and digging through them. Thankfully, there was a counter between us, and his back was to me, so he wasn't completely exposed.  
  
As I stood there, trying to figure out how I could slink past him to my room without his noticing, he slammed a drawer with frustration and bawled, "Mare, where the FUCK do you keep the bottle opener?"  
  
From down the hall came a flurry of giggles and a hushed, "Stop it!" before she responded, "If it's not in the drawer, it must still be in one of those boxes."  
  
Naked guy spun around, presumably to look for the boxes, and saw me standing there like an idiot. You see, I'd just realised that naked guy couldn't be in the bedroom making my mom giggle and in the kitchen getting a beer at the same time. I imagine my jaw was hanging somewhere in the vicinity of my knees as I took in this surprising and thoroughly disgusting development.  
  
"Jesus Fucking Christ! What the hell do you think you're doing?"  
  
What was *I* doing? Step a little closer and say that, pal, I thought to myself. But I said nothing, just stared at him coolly, revelling in the surprise my presence evoked from the man, and the intimidation that joined it when he got a good look at me. There was a silence during which neither of us spoke, and then my mother called out, "Marty, what's taking so long? Dean, honey, did I hear you come in?"  
  
I saw realisation slowly dawn in the man's eyes; looked like he'd managed to figure out who I was. A regular Einstein, this one. Boy, did my mom know how to pick them. Now just go away and leave me alone, I willed him silently, but of course it was to no effect. Hairy naked guy, it seemed, wanted to have another go at regaining control of the situation, now that he knew I was Mary's kid.  
  
"I asked you a question punk: What the hell are you doing here?"  
  
Great, not another power-tripping asshole. I could barely keep my lip from curling. "I live here, what's your excuse?"  
  
His eyes took on a flat sheen and he puffed out his chest. "Your mother."  
  
Ouch. Obviously, he thought he'd really put me in my place with that one. I just smiled sweetly at him, reached into my back pocket and pulled out my army knife. I flipped out the biggest blade, picked up the beer still sitting on the counter, popped the lid, and took a long, deep swig.  
  
He looked as if he wanted to leap over the counter and throttle me, but I think his plans were impeded by: a) my size, and b) his nakedness. So he settled instead on glowering at me in what I'm sure he thought was a very threatening manner. I'd seen it all so many times before, I was bored with the whole thing. Except for the threesome part; I was still trying to digest that, and trying not to imagine who the third party was, when all my questions were laid to rest.  
  
My mother appeared in the doorway of her bedroom, a sheet wrapped half around her. Beside her was a tall, gangly blonde guy wearing nothing but baby blue skivvies and a cowboy hat and boots. Oh well, at least cowboy guy was better than hairy naked guy.  
  
"Dean, I thought I heard you come in. How's the new school?"  
  
"Fine," I muttered, staring at the ground as I downed the rest of the beer. Did she really think I wanted to see all this, or did she just not care at all? I looked up at her, my mother, taking in the stains on the sheet she'd draped around her body, her bloodshot eyes and dishevelled hair (she'd *have* to be drunk to pull something like this), and the fact that cowboy guy had cheap red lipstick smeared all over his face and down his neck. There were so many things I should be feeling right now, but instead I felt nothing, like I'd been hollowed out.  
  
My mom must have realised that they had walked in on something between hairy naked guy and myself, because she snuggled up to him from behind, and crooned something into his ear that I couldn't make out. He grinned wolfishly, and, shooting me a look that made it clear he thought he'd come out on top, disappeared into the bedroom.  
  
"Why don't you join Marty, Randolph? I'll be there in a moment." Cowboy obliged, leaving me alone with my mother. She walked over and put her hand on my shoulder, and I had to fight the urge to recoil.  
  
"I'm sorry Dean," she said lightly, as if she was apologising for forgetting to buy my favourite kind of ice cream, instead of hosting a mini- orgy with some hairy-ass Scottish dude and a cowboy named Randolph. "I didn't think you'd be coming home so early tonight, since it's Friday and all."  
  
"It's Tuesday."  
  
"Oh. Well, uh, here," she said, shuffling over to her purse and pulling out a ten and a five. "Why don't you go see if there's an arcade nearby?"  
  
An arcade? Was she serious? "Fine," I muttered, grabbing the money and shoving it deep into the pocket of my jeans.  
  
"Uh, Dean?" she called out tentatively as I opened the door.  
  
I didn't turn around. "Don't worry, I'll find somewhere else to spend the night," I said, unable to keep the bitterness from creeping into my voice. I slammed the door with (almost) as much force as I could muster, causing the whole frame to quiver and shake, before I headed back out into the night.  
  
I ran for blocks, turning down alleys and side streets at random, needing more than anything to put some distance between myself and that place. I finally stopped, leaning back against a brick wall to catch my breath, ignoring the faint but unmistakable odour of alcohol mixed with vomit and stale urine that permeated the entire alley. Without the sound of my footsteps hitting the pavement, the silence seemed to close in around me, until all I could hear was my own heavy breathing, which grew steadily deafening, drowning out everything else.  
  
I left the alley and strode up the street, passing a bundle of rags that rose and fell rhythmically and reeked of cheap booze. I checked the street signs: 9th and Pine. We'd been here less that a week, so I didn't really have a clue where I was, but that didn't bother me. I figured I'd wander around for awhile, get the lay of the place. What else was I going to do?  
  
After walking for a dozen or so more blocks, I found myself in deep in the Latin quarter of town. I knew this area pretty well, though I rarely walked through it at night; this was considered unwise, if you were alone and looked like you didn't belong.  
  
I was walking along, wondering if anyone would be dumb enough to pick a fight with me, when I heard the sound of a car approaching slowly from behind. I stopped, my hand going automatically for my back pocket as I scanned the area, looking for possible escape routes.  
  
A big maroon car pulled up beside me--it was too dark to make out the model- -and two guys got out. I stood my ground, sizing them up as they approached me. I couldn't make out their features--most of the street lamps had been busted out--but I felt confident I could take them both, provided neither had a gun, of course.  
  
"What you think you doing here, gringo?" one of them asked silkily. Before I could respond, the other guy stepped forward.  
  
"Portman, that you?"  
  
I sighed, surprised to find myself not relieved to have avoided a fight, but rather disappointed. It would have felt good to smash their faces in. "Hey, Marco."  
  
The other guy had stopped advancing, and was looking quizzically at his friend. "It's cool. This is Portman, he's Angel's man." He turned to me. "What you doing way the hell over here, Port?"  
  
"Moved in last week. I live over on Hyacinth," I gestured vaguely over my shoulder. "What are you guys up to?"  
  
"Nothing legal, man. Carlos spotted you walking, we figured we might jump you. Glad we didn't, though," he said, clapping me on the back and turning to his friend. "You know this is the guy who kicked the shit out of Benny Gomez last year?"  
  
"No shit!" he cried, looking up at me with new-found respect. "That how you hook up with Angel?" I nodded. "Man, I've heard about you. Marco's right, I'm glad we didn't try to jump your ass."  
  
"Me too," I lied.  
  
"You wanna see Angel? She's at this party right now, we were just heading over ourselves."  
  
"Sure," I hopped into the backseat beside Carlos and we took off. He reached between his legs and passed me a bottle in a brown paper bag. I took a deep pull, feeling my eyes fill with water and my throat start to burn. Fire whiskey. Good name, I thought, relishing the warmth that travelled down my gullet as I swallowed more and more of the fiery liquid before passing it back to Carlos, my mouth filled with the taste of cinnamon hearts that the whiskey left in its wake.  
  
"Hey Marco, your friend here can really knock them back."  
  
Marco turned around in the driver's seat and grinned at me. "That's nothing. You oughta see him when he really gets going, he's a machine, this kid."  
  
A machine. I liked that. I stared out the window, imagining how much simpler everything would be if I didn't have to feel stuff all the time.  
  
***  
  
"Hang here a sec, Port, I'll go see if Angel's around." I nodded, taking the beer Marco offered me, and glancing around. A few of the guys here, like Marco, I knew pretty well, others I knew by name or sight or reputation, many I didn't know at all. I noticed some of the girls were trying to catch my eye, but I ignored them. Carlos was taking me around, introducing me to people I already knew, like I was a trophy he'd picked up.  
  
I didn't mind; it was noisy and anonymous and people kept giving me alcohol. I was only halfway listening to Carlos' fractured, rather inaccurate account of my assault of Benny Gomez, when I heard a voice behind me. "Hey there, stranger."  
  
Angel was wearing a little slip of a dress that clung to her body in all the right places, showing off the contours of her hips and ass, which anyone here would tell you gave Jennifer Lopez a run for her money. Her hair was a dark, dark brown, so dark it was almost black, and it hung, thick and wavy, to her waist. Deep set eyes stared out at me seductively; framed with makeup, they seemed impossibly large and smouldering. Red lips, slightly parted, tugged at my libido; arms reached out to hold me, pulling me in close.  
  
"Hi Angel," I said, my voice slightly muffled by her mane of hair.  
  
"Let's go upstairs," she whispered in my ear.  
  
I obeyed, ignoring the whistles as we crossed the room and ascended the stairs. Angel pulled me into the nearest bedroom and shut the door, leaning back against it and looking at me hungrily. I took a sip of my beer and tried to look away, but my eyes were dragged back to meet hers, as if by magnetism.  
  
When this girl wanted something, she moved in hard and fast, and I don't think she'd ever been denied. Eight months ago, after seeing what I did to that Gomez fuck, she decided that she wanted me. If we were going out, it was hardly in the traditional sense of the word. She was four years older than me to begin with, and it wasn't as if we went out on dates. We partied and we had sex, and that was about it. This was no mean feat, however, considering Angel's insatiable appetite for both. Her real name was Juanita, but everybody called her Angel because of her love affair with-- you guessed it--angel dust. She was really a nice girl, but she was hungry and wild, and more than a little bit dangerous. I could smell the desire on her, could see it in the way she looked at me, but I wasn't in the mood for it tonight; I couldn't stop thinking about my mother and those guys.  
  
Angel moved in close to me, grabbing my ass tight with both her hands, and I could smell her perfume. Like her, it hit hard and fast, assaulting the senses, and I could feel my knees start to weaken, along with my resolve.  
  
"You seem sad, my little gringo, what have you been up to tonight?" She spoke softly, the words floating from her mouth in breathless little puffs of air, whispers of Egyptian queens long dead. "Would you like a little treat, a little taste of heaven?"  
  
I backed up half a step, trying to clear my head. "I don't think so, Angel, not tonight. My mom, she..." My voice trailed off as she put a finger to my lips.  
  
"Sshhhh, I have something that will make it all go away. Just sit back and let Angel take care of you." She pushed me back onto the bed, gently, so gently, but I could feel the strength, like coiled springs, just beneath her caramel skin. This girl, I truly felt, had the power to tear the world apart. She opened a drawer on the nightstand beside the bed, and pulled out something that looked like a joint.  
  
I still wasn't ready to give in, but then her dress dropped to the floor like a wisp and she stepped out of it neatly, turning to face me, completely naked. "Why fight it? You know you want to." I could see that she was honestly confused with my obvious inner turmoil.  
  
When Angel and I got together, we soon discovered that we had a talent. I'd been with plenty of girls before, and lord knew Angel got around, but neither of us had ever experienced anything like the sex we had when we were together. It was earth-shattering, mind-blowing, scream-till-you-cried sex, and when you threw PCP into the mix... let's just say the results were... enjoyable.  
  
And yet, it was all we had. We didn't have a thing in common; I don't think we ever had a full conversation when we weren't completely wasted. All this, however, was nothing new, and it had never bothered me before...  
  
I watched Angel light up and take a hit; the room was so dark that it glowed outside, and the burning cherry cast a thin yellow glow across her dark, strong features. She passed it to me with puckered-up lips and hungry, expectant eyes; I didn't protest this time.  
  
We made love for several hours, orgasms equally interspersed with hallucinations brought on by the drugs. As always, I was the one who eventually had to call it quits; Angel could go for days without tiring. She often said that what made me special was not just the quality of the sex, but that I could go for longer than anyone she'd ever had before. We lay on the bed, and I watched the snakes slither and crawl over each other, covering the entire ceiling. Rattlers, pythons, vipers, and many others I could not name. Flicking tongues and soulless eyes filled my world, and it was all I could do to keep from trembling.  
  
I felt dirty, used, and for the first time, unfulfilled, even though I had spent the last few hours in a state of perpetual ecstasy. I glanced over beside me; Angel was asleep, her breathing light and regular. She wouldn't miss me. She didn't love me, just like I didn't love her. We were drawn together by our bodies, by our lust for each other, but I was beginning to think that maybe that wasn't enough for me anymore. I didn't want to wind up like my mother, but I knew that if I kept this up, I would. It just felt too good to resist.  
  
I climbed out of bed and got dressed in silence. I took a pad of paper and a pen from the nightstand a scrawled a quick note, which I set on my pillow and, giving Angel one last, longing look, slipped quietly out the door.  
  
Angel, You're a hell of a girl, but I'm sorry, I just can't do this anymore. Be good.  
  
Dean Portman  
  
***  
  
Finding myself alone once more, and on my way down from a hell of a trip, I left the Latin quarter and headed in the general direction of home. So what now, Portman, I thought to myself, kicking a rock as I walked along and feeling rather sorry for myself. Suddenly, the window of a car parked right in front of me exploded, and I hit the ground automatically, my heart pounding in my ears. After an eternity of listening for any sound, I chanced a glance around me. There was nobody in sight, and I hadn't heard a car; it must not have been gunfire, after all.  
  
I got to my feet, feeling rather sheepish. The car, a rusty old yellow Rabbit, had had both its driver and passenger side windows annihilated by an object of some sort, though certainly not a bullet... a rock, perhaps? This reminded me that, bullet or not, someone had just tried to kill me, and I glanced down the alley I had been passing when it happened. I thought I saw a rather enormous figure standing in the dark, just beyond where the light of the street lamps could reach. I took a few steps into the alley, and heard a muffled crash before whoever it was took off in the opposite direction.  
  
I stood there a moment, wondering who the hell that had been, and what I had done to them to provoke an assassination attempt. I still didn't know where I was going to sleep tonight; I had plenty of friends on this side of town, but to be honest, I didn't really like any of them. Then I remembered; Johnny lived on this side of town, his greenhouse was only a dozen or so blocks form here. I started to walk a little faster, happy that I'd found somewhere to go, and eager at the prospect of seeing Johnny again.  
  
When I reached the greenhouse, however, I paused. It was almost four in the morning; surely Johnny would be asleep. He always told me to come over whenever, and to let myself in if he didn't answer, so I just went inside, making as little noise as I could, flopping down onto a beanbag chair in the living room. The moment I did, however, my stomach let out an angry growl, and I realised how long it had been since I'd eaten anything. I dragged myself to my feet, and nearly had a heart attack when I saw Johnny leaning against the entrance to the hall that led to the rest of his flat.  
  
"Thought I heard you come in," he yawned, rubbing his eyes sleepily and smiling up at me with that cheerful, infectious grin of his. "What's up, kid?"  
  
"Nothing. Sorry I woke you up."  
  
He waved his hand impatiently. "I wasn't asleep. You hungry?" I nodded. "There's focaccia bread and cheesecake, but not much else. You want me to whip something up?"  
  
"I'll do it." I started pulling vegetables from the fridge as Johnny sat down on a stool at the counter. I cut up the peppers rather zealously, my knife banging loudly when it made contact with the cutting board. Johnny waited until I had finished chopping before speaking.  
  
"So, you gonna tell me what's wrong Dean, or do I have to guess?"  
  
I tossed the peppers into a wok, adding mushrooms, snow peas and water chestnuts. "I broke up with Angel."  
  
Johnny's eyes widened slightly. "Really?"  
  
I sighed, and reached for the packet of Chinese noodles he held out. "Yeah, I don't really know why even, I mean, we didn't fight. We never fight. I was just thinking about everything and... even really good sex becomes just sex after awhile, if you don't have anything else."  
  
Johnny smiled. "I'm proud of you, Portman. I thought you'd never say that."  
  
"Believe me, neither did I," I said ruefully. "Maybe I'm going crazy."  
  
"No you're not," Johnny broke in, rather forcefully. "You're just growing up, and you see that you're more than just a good lay."  
  
"You're right," I said sarcastically, sprinkling the food with soya sauce and turning on the stove. "Next time I'll use my stunning intellect to impress women."  
  
Johnny opened his mouth to say something, then seemed to think better of it. "Is that really all that's bothering you?" When I said nothing, he continued. "How's the new school?" I snorted, and he grinned. "Okay, stupid question. How's hockey?"  
  
"Bunch of rich, snobby pansies. They hate me."  
  
"It's their own loss. They still let you take kids out, right?"  
  
"It's about all they let me do." I shook my head, angry with myself. "I'm sorry Johnny, I don't mean to bitch so much. It's not that bad, they're a really good team, and besides, it's hockey. Hockey's always fun."  
  
"How's the new apartment? You got your own room this time?"  
  
"Uh-huh," I said, non-commitedly, turning my back to him to tend to the stir-fry.  
  
"Dean, don't bullshit me. What is it? Is it your mom? Does she have a new boyfriend already?" His voice got very serious as he leaned forward in his seat.  
  
"It's nothing like that," I said quickly. And before I knew what I was doing, I was telling him all about hairy naked guy, and Angel, and how I nearly met my end on the way over here. He just listened to me rant, not saying anything. When the stir-fry was finished, I handed him a plateful, and was surprised to see that he seemed close to tears.  
  
"What is it?" I asked worriedly.  
  
"It's nothing," he muttered, coughing and looking away. "I just... I wish things were better for you, Dean."  
  
"What are you talking about?" I asked in astonishment. "Shit, Johnny, I'm fine; I guess I just wanted to get that off my chest." I didn't understand why he looked so upset.  
  
Johnny grinned at me. "You're right. I don't know what I was thinking." Then he got that serious look again. "Portman, you know you can always come here if something like that happens again." I nodded, but he wasn't satisfied. "Promise me you'll come here if it happens again."  
  
I looked at him curiously. "Okay... I promise. Are you sure you're alright?"  
  
He mopped up the last of his stir-fry with a piece of focaccia bread, and popped it into his mouth. "You know it." His eyes lit up as he remembered something. "Come on, I've got a surprise for you."  
  
He made me wait in the living room while he brought it out: the new Harry Potter book. Johnny had started me on them years ago, and I had already been trying to think of ways to come up with the money I'd need to buy it. "Wow, thanks Johnny!"  
  
He smiled at me, his eyes twinkling. "No problem. I figured we could relax, have a little smoke, and I could read some of it to you. You know, like we used to do."  
  
When I was 11 and Johnny was dating my mom, he gave me the first book, and told me to read it, that I'd love it. I'd never really read anything before, and I wasn't very good at it, so Johnny read it aloud to me every night. Like countless others before me, I became hopelessly addicted, and I read the next three books--all gifts from Johnny, of course--by myself.  
  
As any smoker will tell you, marijuana has the ability to open up your imagination, and get you thinking in ways you never had before. Perhaps it was the way time slowed down; it stretched everything out and gave you more time to think. I lay back on my beanbag chair and Johnny sat down on the zebra-print love seat, the hardcover book in his lap. He read for what seemed like hours, passing a joint between him and myself, until the sky grew light in the east as the sun prepared to rise. So many images filled my mind; it was pretty amazing that a stupid little book could make me forget about everything like that. I fell asleep that night, dreaming not of my mother in a threesome, or Angel and her perfume, but of dragons and wizards, house-elves and Quidditch, Polyjuice potion and blast-ended skrewts.  
  
*So, Bottles emerges from the dead! Welcome back Melissa, and I think I speak for everyone when I say: MORE CHADAM!  
  
Schizzie's fabulous Fulton stories have been keeping from writing my own; anyone who hasn't read them already had better get cracking!* 


	4. Meet the parents, and a philosophy of pa...

*Okay, I must once again warn you: long chapter ahead. It seemed a lot shorter when I wrote it in longhand, but when I typed it out and checked the word count... I'm just getting far too carried away. I took out this whole middle Portman section; I'll stick that in somewhere in the future, I bet. The thing is, now this chapter is nothing but bleakness, now that the cutesy lusting and comic relief got ousted, so be prepared, hard times are ahead for my dearest Fulton. Writing this chapter was crazy; I was pretty far from my right mind when I did it, so let me know what you think of the results. It's kinda... well, you'll see.  
  
Anyway, I know I shouldn't do anything to add to the length of this update, but I have some notes to share, so suck it up!  
  
Grasshopper: "...the innate nothingness of Fulton," huh? Have a little Jean- Paul Sartre for breakfast, did you? Seriously, I agree with you there, and I'm glad you like what I'm doing with the Bashies; getting inside their heads is always my number one priorty, so thanks for saying I do it well.  
  
RockAndRoll: Wow, thanks for all the updates! Sorry I couldn't give you proper props for "Fatty McButterpants." Man, I'd have a hard time coming up with names that aren't the same as characters in one movie or another. Maybe I should switch to ethnic names, I've always been partial to the German ones: Fritz, Olga, Gertrude and the like.  
  
Bottles: Come back to us! The world needs more Chadam!  
  
Selena (and Solis and Tai, if you read my junk): My story, dark? Compared to you, I'm pure fairytale! I don't see this Ice Cream you promised, though! *growls, pokes Selena in retaliation* I doubt this chapter compares to the last one of SIDBIM for angst and pain; I should probably stick to the fluffier gunk.  
  
Cake-Eater: Wow, that's truly the best thing anyone could ever say about my story, that they get lost inside it. That's the most to which I could ever aspire, to pull people out of their world, and into mine for a little while. And S.E. Hinton? I was heavily influenced by her for the style of the last chapter, mainly Tex and The Outsiders, but a smidge of Rumble Fish as well, and if it reminds you of her, then I hope that means I pulled it off!  
  
Schizzie: Nearly done your vacation? Hey, you still haven't told me what the hell a vocational school is yet! Don't make me chain you up again! *towers over Schizzie, shaking her fist* Man, I'm going to end up as a vegetable if I keep researching my chapters like this... hee hee!  
  
"All around me are familiar faces, worn-out places, worn-out faces,  
  
Bright and early for the daily races, going nowhere, going nowhere.  
  
Their tears are filling up their glasses, no expression, no expression,  
  
Hide my head, I wanna drown my sorrow, no tomorrow, no tomorrow.  
  
And I find it kinda funny, I find it kinda sad;  
  
the dreams in which I'm dying are the best I've ever had.  
  
I find it hard to tell you, I find it hard to take,  
  
When people run in circles, it's a very, very,  
  
Mad world."  
  
--"Mad World" by Gary Jules and Michael Andrews.  
  
Not only does it scream Fulton like nobody's business, but it's also flat- out one of the best songs I've ever heard. Donnie Darko soundtrack, check it out.  
  
Fulton's POV:  
  
I knew my mom was tweaking again when I came upstairs to take a shower before school and saw her scurrying about the kitchen in her best dress, the smell of frying bacon in the air. She was shuffling back and forth across the room, opening drawers and cupboards at random and re-arranging their contents; she kept running her fingers through her short red hair, causing it to jut out from her head at all angles. There were eggs frying on the stove alongside the bacon, and I could smell something cooking in the oven, as well.  
  
"Hey, mom," I said, yawning loudly.  
  
She spun around to face me, her eyes wide, her lips stretched into a manic grin. "Fulton, baby, you're up! Thank god, I thought I was going to have to throw all this away!"  
  
"What do you mean, where's Dad?"  
  
"Some company is paying him to haul junk for them for a few days; it starts early in the morning."  
  
"You mean this is for me?"  
  
"Sure is kiddo, lord knows I couldn't keep anything down. Now, how do you like your eggs?"  
  
I couldn't believe my luck, the first meal my mother cooks in a month, and my father wasn't around to keep me away. "Uh, sunny side up, please."  
  
"You got it, biscuits are nearly done, too. Have a seat."  
  
"You made biscuits, too?" I asked disbelievingly.  
  
"Yup," she said, grinning broadly as she scratched at the back of her hand. "And I cleaned the kitchen, and the living room, and I'll get to the bedroom as soon as the food's done."  
  
I looked around me for the first time. Man, I must really be dead in the mornings; how could I not have noticed this? The floor, table and countertop had all been washed and cleared of debris; normally, you had to shift armloads of old newspapers and beer cans just to find a place to sit, and I could actually see through the window that opened onto the alley from the kitchen. I glanced over my shoulder into the living room; it was the same in there. Though the walls were still a dingy off-white, the paint rippling and peeling all along the cracked old baseboard, they had been washed free of the grime that had accumulated over the years, and it looked as if she had even vacuumed the grotty old carpet, which would be quite a feat, considering we didn't own a vacuum cleaner.  
  
"Wow, mom, the place looks great." When I came home last night, the apartment had been a shambles, as always, and an exhaustive search on my part hadn't been able to turn up a single scrap of food, let alone a side of bacon and a half-dozen eggs. "You've been up all night, haven't you?"  
  
She smiled at me sheepishly, handing me a plate piled high with food. "I'll take a nap once you leave for school."  
  
Yeah, right, I thought, watching her scratch furiously at the back of her hand, her nails raising thin weals of blood from the raw, red skin. Speeding or not, though, it was hard to complain about a full stomach and a clean house, and I left for school that day in rather joyous mood. Given the transient nature of happiness in my household, it should have come as no surprise that everything went to hell in a hand basket later that night, but, in what I must say was a spectacular demonstration of my own stupidity, I never saw it coming.  
  
***  
  
There was no hockey game that night, so once school let out (well, an hour or so before that, no way was I in the mood for Math), I headed straight for J.J's garage. J.J. aka Jackson Jonovich, was a short, heavyset guy in his early thirties. He ran the garage, which was mainly a front for his lucrative stolen car and parts dealership. He approached me after this crazy shit I had to pull a few years back; he was always trying to get me to boost cars for him, but so far, I had managed to avoid the temptation. I worked for him sporadically, putting stuff together, or taking stuff apart, and he let me keep the car I was working on at the garage, and use his old tools and parts and junk. He always paid me a bit for the work I did for him too, and that day I picked up twenty dollars and an eighth of bud for helping him lower this VW he'd managed to acquire. The engine part I needed for the Caddy still hadn't arrived, so once I'd finished with the Volkswagon, I took off, stopping by the library to drop off some books and pick up a new batch, before heading for home.  
  
I saw that our car was nowhere in sight, which meant that my father wasn't in, so I walked in the front door, instead of using the basement window. My mom was in the living room, hanging long strands of intricately designed paper dolls from the ceiling with thumbtacks. When she saw me, she hopped down off the chair she was standing on, and rushed over to greet me. She was now looking rather the worse for all the crank she's been taking; looked as if she'd been into the shit all day, as well. I let her hug me, and drag me over to the couch, and listened while she rattled on at high speed about her day.  
  
There was a packet of tin foil on the table, and I was relieved to see it was nearly empty; while it was nice to have my mom fully conscious and alert for once, messing around with crystal meth could fast develop into a nasty habit, and if she got much more than a taste, I was pretty sure Tina would never let her go.  
  
Turned out she had gone to the food bank early that morning (the only time to go, if you didn't want to be stuck in line all day), which explained the food of that morning, not to mention the potatoes and chicken she put on shortly after I came in. Man, I could really get used to this Mother of the Year shit. I was sitting at the kitchen table, watching her cook, listening to her go on about nothing. I didn't mind; this was about as "normal" as my mother was likely to get. I was just tucking into my chicken, thinking about how I hadn't eaten this well in months, when my father came home.  
  
I had forgotten all about him, and so I wasn't on alert like I should have been; it wasn't until I heard the door slam that I knew he was back, and by then, it was already too late. "Lila?" he called loudly. "What's that smell?" He strode into the kitchen where I was sitting, frozen in my seat, and his eyes narrowed at the sight of me. "What's going on here?"  
  
I stared at my plate, willing myself to swallow the food that had become lodged in my suddenly constricted throat. "Mom's cooking," I muttered.  
  
"I can see that, genius," he sneered, throwing himself into the chair opposite me, and reaching into the fridge for a beer.  
  
My mom emerged from the bathroom, which she had felt the need to re-grout. "Clayton, you're just in time; I made dinner." She was smiling proudly, though I thought I saw her glance at me out of the corner of her eye.  
  
"You sure did, honey, and it smells delicious."  
  
She beamed at him, and handed him a plate full of food. I could smell the alcohol on my father's breath, Wild Turkey, and figured this was probably a good time to make an exit, so I bolted down the rest of my food as quick as I could. When I rose from the table, however, my father's hand clamped down on my arm like a vise, and he yanked me back into my seat.  
  
"I don't think so, kiddo. We're going to have a nice family meal that your mother made. Stay put."  
  
I sat there, watching him wolf down his food, a too-familiar sense of dread creeping over me. I had been down this road before, many times, and I knew exactly where it led.  
  
"So," he said, not looking up from his plate. "How was school?"  
  
"Umm... okay, I guess." WHACK. He reached across the table and hit me on the head with his spoon.  
  
"When I ask you a question, son, I expect a better answer than that."  
  
Oh, great, here we go. I crossed my arms across my chest and slouched down, making myself as small as possible, which wasn't very small, mind you.  
  
"I *said*, how was school?" His voice was soft, his eyes glinting dangerously. I hated the way he looked at me, like I was a worm he was going to enjoy squashing and scraping off the sole of his boot. I could feel my stomach tighten and my pulse start to speed up as my body pumped adrenalin into my bloodstream.  
  
Though I was long past actual fear of my father, dread was something else entirely. Fear is this shifty, fluttering little thing that arises when you don't know what's going to happen, but you feel it won't be good. Dread was this hard, heavy sensation that came when you knew exactly what was going to happen, and that there was nothing you could do about it. In my mind, I felt this bored, detached sort of dread; I knew what was coming, but it was just this unpleasant, familiar thing that was as much a part of my life as eating or sleeping. My body, however, was more on edge; my father always managed to trigger a "fight or flight" response from my glands. The result was this jumble of bodily reactions, but no emotions.  
  
"School was wonderful," I said flatly.  
  
WHACK. "Shut up. You make me sick." He looked around him, and, seeing that my mother had left the room, turned to me. "Get me another beer."  
  
I got up and went to the fridge. "You're all out."  
  
"What?"  
  
"I can get you some more," I said quickly. "But the cold beer and wine stores are closed, so it'll be warm..."  
  
"You little cocksucker," he said, his voice calm and almost gentle. "You've been sneaking my beer again, haven't you?" He reached onto his shirt pocket, and pulled out a cigarette, looking at me slyly as he lit it.  
  
"No," I said, knowing it was useless.  
  
"Don't lie to me!"  
  
"I'm not lying; you must have drank it yourself."  
  
"So now *I'm* the liar, am I?" His voice was barely above a whisper.  
  
Good one, Fulton. "I'm not saying that, I just meant..."  
  
He was on me in a flash. Grabbing my right arm and pinning it to the table, he sat on my lap, holding me fast to the chair, so I couldn't get away. I squirmed, but it was no use. "You're a lying, thieving little bitch, aren't you?" he said quietly, taking a long drag on his cigarette.  
  
"No."  
  
"What was that?"  
  
"I'm not lying, and I didn't steal anything." I struggled again, but it only got me a hard elbow to the stomach.  
  
"Tell me you're a lying, thieving little bitch."  
  
"No," I choked out between gasps.  
  
He took one last drag on his cigarette, then ground it out on my exposed forearm. I could smell burnt flesh before I felt a thing, and then my arm flared up in pain. "Say it, or you'll get another."  
  
"Okay, okay! I'm a lying, thieving bitch!"  
  
He let go of my arm and stood up, looking down on me with disgust. "Tell me something I don't know."  
  
One of these days, I thought, rubbing my burnt arm, I'm going to get you back for all this. One of these days, I'm going to make you scream. And why not today, I couldn't help thinking. Why not now?  
  
"Well gee," I said sarcastically, the words popping out of my mouth before I could stop them. "That's an awfully broad category; I wouldn't know where to begin."  
  
Before he could register what I said, I spun around and took off for the door, only to run full-tilt into my mother, who was on her hands and knees, scrubbing the carpet with a soapy cloth. I flipped over top of her and landed heavily on my back, getting the wind knocked out of me for the second time in a few minutes.  
  
Fulton, I thought dimly as I lay on the ground. You're so fucking stupid, you deserve everything you get. And then my father was upon me.  
  
Pain.  
  
Pain's a bitch, anyone will tell you, but there's so much more to it than most people will ever know. It's... complex, my relationship with pain. Yes, I consider it a relationship, because, thanks to the ever-generous assistance of my beloved father, I have come to know it very well indeed over the years. I let the pain suck me into its world; I lost myself inside it. My father's feet connected with my chest, my back, my legs. Blood flowed freely from my lower lip, where my teeth were firmly clamped. I bit back scream after scream, sending the pain deep below, where I forced it in upon itself until it formed a bright, golden ball in my chest. I could actually see it, this glowing orb that I struggled to keep contained, though as his feet fell on me again and again, the ball grew, a heavy, throbbing heat in my hands, and I knew I couldn't hold it for much longer. Pain coursed through every inch of my body, pain like I hadn't felt since... when?  
  
My mind divided itself, splitting into separate entities, each one dealing with another aspect of the situation in which I found myself. One part of me remained with my body; I shuffled into a corner and curled up, covering my head, protecting my ribs, because I'd been here before... Part of my mind was analysing the pain, taking me back in time, almost three years, to when I was fourteen. I didn't remember what I'd done, but it must have been bad, because it had felt like my father was trying to kill me. Steel-toed boots cracked three of my ribs, introducing me to a pain I'd never felt before, and hadn't felt since... until today.  
  
I remember you, I thought dimly, struggling to remain conscious. We've met before...  
  
Suddenly, the kicking stopped, and with it, the yelling. After a moment, I chanced a glance over my shoulder at my father. He was standing over me, his face red, his breathing heavy, and I could tell by the angry, hungry way he looked at me, that we weren't through just yet.  
  
Shit, I thought wildly. If he keeps this up, I'm liable to wind up in the hospital. But my worries were unfounded; my father had a knack for causing the maximum amount of pain while inflicting the minimum amount of damage, and it was with something like relief that I watched him undo his belt, and tug it free from his jeans.  
  
He always liked to say that pain was the only language I understood, and I'll admit I was certainly fluent in the feeling, particularly when it came to belts. I was a connoisseur of belts; I'd been tasting them my whole life. It spoke with angry tongues, pounding in a lesson I would never learn. My father was unimportant; it was his belt that held the power, its harsh leather religion, christening my skin with blows until my body sang a gospel of pain.  
  
Bright lights danced before my eyes as my father hauled me to his feet. "I'm trying to help you, boy, you know that, don't you? You're no good, and it's my job to teach you some respect."  
  
Everything was foggy and unclear, and there was a ringing in my ears that made it hard to make out his words, but I like to think I was in my right mind when I began to laugh softly; he was just so... predictable. "Fuck you," I whispered between hushed little laughs, extending the middle finger off my left hand. "Fuck you, Dad."  
  
And as he grabbed my hair and knocked my head against the wall, I ran into someone I hadn't seen in awhile. Oh yes, there it was again. Hello, old friend. Pain was a constant, unaltered by space and time. So simple and pure and... I understood it, could twist my body around it until we were one, a single unit. My father's words of wisdom fell on deaf ears as he slammed my head into the wall again and again, and I finally passed out cold on the third try.  
  
***  
  
It was all fine and well to get philosophical about pain when you were getting the shit kicked out of you; everyone knew that was easy enough. That kind of fiery, exquisite pain made your mind do all kinds of whacked- out shit, plus there was a certain je-ne-sais-quoi, a poetry, or maybe just a fucked-up masochistic quality about it. I dealt well with that kind of pain, and riding out my father's little punishment sessions without screaming or crying or breaking down in any way always filled me with this vicious, teeth-baring, fuck-you kind of pride. It drove my father nuts; I knew he would love the chance to kick my ass all over again for being a whiny bitch, but I would never give him the satisfaction. I know, that's pretty hurting, but leave me my pithy little victories, okay? They're all I've got.  
  
There was nothing romantic, however, about the aftermath, in slowly regaining consciousness to find myself half-glued to the floor by my own congealed blood, most of which seemed to have originated from my nose, mouth and forehead when they made their repeated, enthusiastic introductions to the living room wall. I tried to raise my head, but the motion caused stabbing pains of such intensity to shoot through my skull, that I nearly blacked out again. A wave of dizziness and nausea washed over me, and I stifled a groan as I lowered my head back to its previous position in a pool of dried blood. Son of a bitch must have given me a concussion...  
  
And then my mother's face appeared before mine, her features not pinched with concern, but open and dreamy. She was dabbing at me with a warm, wet cloth, gently washing the blood from my face. She was smiling vaguely, and half-sang, half-hummed a tune that I immediately recognised as one of my favourites from when I was very young: "Puff, the magic dragon, lived by the sea, and frolicked in the autumn mist, in a land called Honah Lee. Little Jackie Paper, loved that rascal Puff, and brought him strings and sealing wax, and other fancy stuff..."  
  
She stopped singing when she saw my eyes come to rest on hers. She bent down and kissed my forehead. "There you are, my little Lancelot. I thought you'd never come back."  
  
"Just couldn't stay away, I guess." I shifted my head, and winced at the pain it caused.  
  
"Are you broken?" she asked softly.  
  
I sent my fingers over my body, checking for damage. My lower back was a wall of pain; he must have fucked with my kidneys again, but there didn't seem to be anything worse than that, not counting my head of course, the pain in which was making it hard to think clearly. Or maybe that was the concussion...  
  
"I'll live."  
  
She smiled, and stroked my cheek. "I know you will."  
  
"How long have I been out?"  
  
"Awhile. Should we try and get you downstairs?" I nodded. I wanted to be out of the way when my father came back. It wasn't that he'd start in on my again, but he'd laugh and point and jeer and... no thanks.  
  
My mother helped mw to my feet, but my head didn't think much of that plan, and this time I did vomit, retching all over the nice clean carpet. "Sorry," I muttered, cradling my head in my hands, trying to hold my skull together; for some reason, it seemed determined to split itself in two.  
  
She half-supported my weight as I hobbled slowly down the steps to the basement, leaning heavily on the old wooden banister, ignoring the splinters it buried in my palm, praying it wouldn't snap before I reached the bottom. She helped me onto my bed, and I curled up automatically on my side; my back was far too sore to do anything else. My mother finished washing the blood from my face, while I tried to imagine myself out of my body.  
  
"Together they would travel on a boat with billowed sail, Jackie kept a lookout perched on Puff's gigantic tail. Noble kings and princes would bow whenever they came; pirate ships would lower their flag when Puff roared out his name."  
  
She jerked her head up at the sound of the front door opening; my father didn't like to see her helping me like this. She looked down at me sadly, perhaps even guiltily, but it was hard to be sure.  
  
"Go. I'll be fine."  
  
She took my hand in hers and kissed it, slipping something into my palm as she did so. "I love you, my little Lancelot," she said softly.  
  
Once she had left, I looked down at my hand, which held a tiny packet of aluminum foil. I opened it carefully; it was filled with a caramel-coloured powder, like brown sugar. Thanks, mom. Moving very slowly and carefully, I sat up on my bed, and gingerly removed my shirt. My body was covered with puffy red welts, many of which had already developed the dark speckles that signalled the arrival of a bruise. I was going to be every shade of purple by tomorrow.  
  
Reaching deep into one of the cardboard boxes beside my bed, my fingers searched and probed, eventually coming to rest on a Ziploc baggie. I pulled it out and set it down on the bed, my eyes alternating between its contents and the packet I still held in my hand. And why not? I thought, suddenly angry about everything. Why the fuck not? I lit the fat votive candle that sat on one of the boxes, and, removing a tiny metal dish from the baggie, filled it with water and powder and held it over the flame, watching the powder disintegrate and the resulting liquid begin to bubble and percolate.  
  
I took the dish off the fire, and filled a syringe with the sweet brown liquid. I had only done this twice before, and both experiences had followed a particularly nasty bout with my father. I looked down at the tattoo that wound itself around my upper arm; they were right about me, I was just like her. No excuse, no justifications, but Christ, it hurt so much...  
  
I pulled the final item from the baggie, a length of thin rubber tubing, which I tied tight to my arm. I watched the veins slowly rise to the surface of my skin, those magical blue threads that would carry the poison to my brain, and make all of this go away.  
  
I buried the needle into my flesh, and when bright red blood blossomed up the dropper's neck like a time-lapse film of a rose in summer, I hit the plunger.  
  
Not many people experience death and live to tell about it, but I was one of those. As soon as I injected, the pain in my body vanished, replaced with a joy that could never be described to someone who has never used heroin. Everything went black, and I could feel myself sinking deep into the ground, my life slowly ebbing away. And then, in an explosion of colours and sounds and smells, I was back, but now I was so much more. I was an angel, and pain and sadness were less a memory. I could see and hear everything; my sense of touch was so intently magnified that I spent hours just lying there, basking in the sensory overload that came when my skin made contact with a book, a bong, or my own body.  
  
My fascination (okay, obsession) with death goes back as far as I can remember, and that night, all of its secrets became known to me. If only I could have stayed like that forever... You see, I'd never before felt so alive as I did that night, the night I died. Don't you just love the irony of it all? 


	5. Portrait of the artist as a lovesick you...

*Okay, I've pretty much given up my attempts to curb the lengths of my updates. This one is crazy short, however; it was what I removed from the last chapter, and I had to stick it in before the next one, so you would know how Fult felt about Port before the thing that's coming next, but it wasn't quite enough for a whole chapter, so I tried to split it with a Charlie POV, but that grew to a whole chapter, so I just amputated this section again, and stuck it in here. Like any of you care, I know; also, I'm reposting this with all the apostrophes taken out, because for some reason, they're showing up on ff.net as a bunch of symbols, like this: can't... this had better be a temporary thing; it really sucks, and I apologize profusely... On the bright side, the next chapter is finished as well, but I have to type it up, so give me a day or two. Anyway, short chapter gets long notes, so have fun!*  
  
Cake-Eater: Yeah, I know, all that Fulton-pain... believe me, it hurt to write it, but while any Fulton-pain is enough to cause me serious grief, my real issue is with Bashie angst; I just cant stand to see them broken up and miserable. Feel free to go on a crazy drive-by Clayton-kicking, I'll even join in... with my trusty machete! *lycanthrope brandishes evil- looking blade* Ha ha! Kinda messed up, I know, but Portman is always the one light of his life, so I just give him a bunch of shit to deal with, and make sure that he always has Portman to help him out... and vice versa... Six shark sightings? Man, I would kill for a shark-infested beach. Robert Shaw is my hero! And I'm yours? Woo! I always wanted to be a hero! I'm blushing! My name means "brave warrior," you know! Cool, huh? I think so, but I deserve it, cause the rest of it blows... Sara Lee Quimby is Cake- Eater? Seems appropriate... hee hee! (don't kill me!)  
  
--Kathleen Alexandra Dyck the First  
  
Schizzie: An evil genius bitch, am I? Portman called Fulton that once (without the bitch part), in Might as Well, so I'm flattered! Bad guys always have more fun! I won't be inducing any incoherent babbling for a few chapters, now; gonna rest up a bit, but I promise I wont stray too far!  
  
RockAndRoll: Sorry, hon, but puzzles are dorky, no matter what! Photo mosaics help, but they aren't enough; sorry. A Star Wars photo mosaic puzzle is probably the only thing that could save you from irreparable damage. But I like my RockAndRoll in flood pants, at a puzzle table, listening to Iron Maiden; we'll just ignore the fact that I spent my entire school career harrassing anyone who dared to wear flood pants; it's a sickness, really! Oooo, and a writing career for lycanthrope? Don't tempt me, or I'm apt to drop out of school and try for just that! I beat Corey Haim? Finally, victory is mine! Now I can use my powers to draw Cory Feldman to me, and to turn back time to when he wasn't a washed-up reality show contestant, and... have my way with him, perhaps? Make him a man? Oh, Edgar Frog, you will always be my fearless vampire hunter!  
  
Kelly: Hey, welcome! I was wondering if you'd get around to my little story... glad you did, and that you enjoy! I always see Mush when I look at Portman; I just can't get past the dancing thing, and I bet I'll allude to it in most of my stories at one time or another, he's just got that body... Yeah, the Downtown Eastside is pretty fucked-up, non? I'm looking forward to putting more of it in there in subsequent chaps... let's see, I lived in Port Coquitlam for a long time with my mom, and Maple Ridge, Pitt Meadows and east Van with my dad... I live in east Van now, off Commercial Drive (hippie central, I love that place!), in my tiny-ass little basement suite... and the Olympics? I voted no, but I'm no hard-core, and I think it'll be a lot of fun, now that it's been decided... I'm pretty proud of Canada right now, Vancouver in particular. Gay marriages, decriminalised marijuana, the Olympics, what we're doing with regards to all this crazy Iraq shit... yeah. I think I'm just grateful to be living in my country, Gordon Campbell and all. Afraid I don't own a computer, so if im is one of those message thingies like ICQ, I don't have access, but I'd love to talk Emilio/hockey/Vancouver with you, so... email? Or I can post to the MD list, just let me know...  
  
Grasshopper: Who doesn't love S.E. Hinton? She was one of my very first obsessions... long before Elden Henson came along... and I too love the tie- ins, like Ponyboy in That Was Then, or Mark in Tex (so sad!), and... all of it. She's magic.  
  
Soli, Tai and Selena: Oooh, you like the sarcasm and rambling? I was kinda worried I used them to excess... My Fulton will never be like yours, he's rather too mellow and well-adjusted (considering), and I think he would be a very different person under better circumstances... but I love him just the way he is, neediness and all. I'll try to keep some darkness in him, though, so this doesn't turn into BBL 2. Anyway, glad to know that you are reading and enjoying!  
  
Fulton's POV:  
  
It was almost a week before I'd healed up enough to go back to school; you can imagine how torn up I was about that. Still, after a few days of being stuck in my basement hovel, even I was ready to go back. I didn't normally take so long to rest up, but it wasn't because of my head. Ever taken a hard blow to your kidneys? If you have, believe me, you'd remember it. I could barely walk at all for two days, and I pissed blood for four. It wasn't that bad, though; I had my good friend Mary Jane to help me through my time of need, plus my mom was kind enough to slip me some Demerol a few times, so I was riding a nice wave of that as I made my way to school that morning.  
  
School. State-sponsored sadism was more like it, I thought to myself as I stared up at the crumbly old concrete brick building, which was being strangled to death by long strands of ivy, slowly insinuating their way into all the cracks and crevices. Between dodge ball and the Geneva Convention, closeted alcoholic teachers and disenfranchised students, it all culminated into more socially-embraced absurdity than Albert Camus could shake a stick at. Well, most of the time.  
  
I'd just finished a math test I'd missed while I was "sick," and was making my way down the hall at a leisurely pace, hardly eager to get to my next class, when I heard a deep, gravelly, somehow familiar voice come floating out though an open doorway.  
  
"I am Iron Man..."  
  
I stuck my head in the door, and saw Portman standing in the middle of the science lab. He had his back to me, and there was a long-handled broom in his hand. I could hear the Black Sabbath emanating from his Walkman, and I watched in unbridled amusement as he struck a manly pose and began to stomp around, singing loudly--and surprisingly well--using the broom as a microphone.  
  
"Has he lost his mind? Can he see or is he blind? Can he walk at all, or if he moves will he fall? Is he alive or dead? Has he thoughts within his head? We'll just pass him there, why should we even care?"  
  
Looking back on it now, I know what I was feeling that day, but at the time, I didn't have a clue. I knew Portman looked amazingly hot, and I was reminded of all the times he'd looked amazingly hot on the ice as well, not to mention in class, and that night I almost took his head off with a hockey puck, and that time I saw him walking by the library... I knew all this, because, well, my body wasn't leaving any room for interpretation of the matter. As for what the rest of me was feeling, that was something else entirely; I'd never felt any of it before, or if I had, nowhere near as strongly.  
  
I could have spent hours standing in the hallway pondering these new sensations, but as I knew there would be plenty of time for that later, I decided to put thinking on hold for a little while, and just sit back and enjoy the scene before me, which I assure you, I did most enthusiastically. It was straight out of some cheesy high school romance, except for the boy- boy thing. I could be the shy girl that nobody noticed, and Portman needed a nasty girlfriend I'd have to outshine in the big romantic showdown at the end. I'd have a wise-cracking best friend who would eventually join forces with me in a wacky plan to win the boy's heart, plus "Iron Man" had to be replaced with some vomit-inducing pop song du jour. Oh, sure, I mocked the idea, but I needed it, too; it let me imagine my way out of the impossible situation in which I'd somehow become entangled, and into a world where I didn't have to feel scared, or dirty, or ashamed for what I was feeling.  
  
I don't know how long I would have stood there, watching him, if Ms. Wong hadn't suddenly appeared in the doorway connecting the lab to the fume hoods next door, and I had to withdraw quickly so she wouldn't see me. I pressed my back up against the wall, ignoring the shooting pains this action caused, and inclined my head so I could hear what she was saying. I probably needn't have bothered; her voice was loud and angry as she called out, "Mr. Portman!" several times before the music stopped, and I figured she must have managed to get his attention.  
  
"I will be coming back in ten minutes, and if you haven't finished by then, you'll be in here for the rest of the week. Is that clear?"  
  
I could hear the smile in his voice as he responded, "Yep, sure thing. Clear as glass." Then was a soft tinkling sound, like that of something broken being swept up, and he chuckled.  
  
Ms. Wong's voice was now positively squeaky with indignation. "You may think this is funny, Mr. Portman, but breaking an entire tray of test tubes is no laughing matter when the school doesn't have the money to replace them. Now clean that up. And no more singing."  
  
"You got it, sweetie."  
  
She gave an angry exclamation, but said nothing further, and the next sound was that of the door shutting firmly behind her. As soon as she was gone, the music started up again, and Portman's voice followed me down the hall. All though my next class, I found myself humming softly, "Nobody wants him, he just stares at the world. Planning his vengeance, that he will soon unfurl."  
  
***  
  
"Shit, Portman, you should have been there. Fucking kid was bawling his eyes out, wasn't he, Joe?"  
  
"Fucking-A, he was. Fucking pansy. We got thirty bucks off him, though, and it'll be more like eighty when we hock his shoes and Walkman."  
  
"You stole his shoes?"  
  
"You bet your fucking ass we did! Brand new Nikes. Kid really went nuts when we took those, said his dad would kill him. Shit, I hope he does, the fucking little cocksucker."  
  
"How old was this kid?"  
  
"Dunno, whatcha think, Mike?"  
  
"I'd say eleven, maybe twelve. No way was he older then that, the way he cried when we hit him." Mike laughed uproariously at this, and his buddies soon joined him.  
  
"So, the four of you beat this kid up and stole his shoes; why?"  
  
They all looked up at him in puzzlement. "What do you mean, why?"  
  
Portman rolled his eyes. "Forget it."  
  
I watched the five of them disappear into the tangled undergrowth and scraggly trees that grew behind the gym and comprised the school's stoner central. While I still didn't think much of his choice of companions, with each passing day, I was becoming more and more interested with this Portman kid.  
  
He was gorgeous, for one thing; he had this cheeky grin that just seemed to light up his face, which was a beautiful golden brown, like he'd just come in off the beach, and oh god, those muscles...  
  
I didn't usually get like this over anyone; normally, as soon as my body could register any hormone-fuelled attraction I was feeling, my mind revolted when I saw that whoever it was was as much of an asshole as everyone else, albeit a slightly prettier asshole than most. But with him, it was different; my attraction for him only grew the more I watched him, like I was peeling back layers, and each one was better than the last. He may have hung out with those random, mindless delinquents, but I had yet to see him partake in any of their shit, and, given the snippet of conversation I'd overheard, he was no more impressed with their jumping middle school kids than I.  
  
I bit into the apple I'd nicked from a fruit stand on the way to school, my thoughts firmly ensconced with Dean Portman. This had been happening more and more often lately, since a week or two ago, when I'd been shooting pucks in an alleyway, and damn near decapitated him by accident. I ran away before he managed to get a good look at me, and since that anonymous, late- night encounter, he'd been on my mind more than ever. What had he been doing alone at that time of night? It was the only time I'd seen him when he wasn't surrounded by his troupe of admirers, or plowing his way across the ice.  
  
To be honest, I was starting to get a little worried about the way he was making me feel. It couldn't lead to anything good, having the hots for the only kid I knew who might be able to take me in a fight. I mean, that thing in the science lab, what was that all about? Was I going to turn into this creepy stalker kid, start following him home, drooling onto his shoes when I thought he wasn't looking? When my mind actually paused to consider this as a viable option, I pounded my fist against my forehead in frustration. I immediately regretted this, of course, but I also welcomed the rush of pain that followed; maybe it would clear my head, get me thinking straight. I mean, what the hell did my brain think it was doing, making me feel like this?  
  
Come to think of it, I already *was* practically stalking the guy; I'd come to see every one of his games since the night he played the Fishies, even four days ago, when I'd had to chomp some serious painkillers just to drag my sorry, boy-crazy ass off my bed and over to the arena. I'd missed the Swordfishes' last game due to my injuries, but the idea of Portman on the ice, yelling and laughing and smashing was just too much to resist. The substantial pain of that evening hadn't been near enough for me to regret attending; on the contrary, I felt rather good for having endured it for his sake, almost as if I had earned the right to watch him play. Fucked up, I know, but if you haven't figured it out yet, fucked-up is pretty much going to be par for the course, here, so get used to it.  
  
It doesn't mean anything, I thought to myself as I watched Portman and his entourage emerge from the thicket. He pushed a large branch out of the way to get by, and when he let it go, it snapped back with a crack, and I cheered silently as it caught one of the little pricks in the face, sending him crashing to the ground with a muffled "Yeep!"  
  
On hearing the noise, Portman looked back over his shoulder at the kid, who was now struggling to his feet, pulling leaves and twigs from his hair with one hand, and cupping a bloody nose with the other. Portman just laughed and continued walking, and the others scurried to catch up.  
  
It's just a crush, I thought, almost desperately. You'll wake up in a week or a month and the feeling will be gone, and you'll wonder what the hell you ever saw in the kid. I was sitting in the shade under a tree, a copy of Great Expectations carefully concealed behind my Spanish notebook. Shit, I felt just like Pip, mooning over that Estella chick. The kids were laughing and joking loudly as they approached, the sweet smell of pot clinging to their clothes, and one of them kept tripping over his feet as he walked, screeching like a goddamned howler monkey. I could see Portman wince at the sound of howler monkey's laugh, and as they walked toward me, he caught my eye and held it for a moment that seemed to stretch out into eternity; my heart leapt up into my throat and I felt my palms grow clammy. But it's just a crush, nothing to worry about, just a stupid crush, I repeated to myself over and over as they headed past me to the parking lot, and I waited for my breathing to return to normal. 


	6. It just doesn't pay to be nice

*So, here's another chapter for you guys; aren't I all Speedy Gonzales this week? Unfortunately, this one seems to be infected with the same disease that struck down my last update; namely, all these crazy symbols in the place of punctuation! Argh! I've tried everything; does anyone know how to get rid of them? If you do, PLEASE let me know; they're driving me crazy! The next chapter will actually feature some Fulton/Portman interaction; it's about bloody time, wouldn't you say? But I just had to squeeze in all that damned exposition... Anyway, this one is pretty light on the drama quotient again; maybe I figured Fulton could use a break. Kidney injuries really do suck, as Fulton, Soli or lycanthrope will tell you.  
  
RockAndRoll: No, you never told me you liked Iron Maiden, but you mentioned AC/DC and Zep, so I figured... how could you not? I was pretty sure Iron Man would be up your alley as well, and Strutter is my favourite Kiss song, too. I also love the Donnas' version on the Detroit Rock City soundtrack, which is simply one of the best of its kind. I was Peter Pan for Christmas last year, Michelangelo could kick Donatello's ass from here to Pennsylvania, and everyone knows that Eeyore is better than Tigger. So there.  
  
Selena, Solis, and Taiorami: Tai: Sorry about the whole fainting thing. *coughs* Once, my friends and I all breathed into paper bags until we passed out... one of those things almost everyone does, at some point, I think, just to see if they can... Wow, so can I put it on my resume that my story caused Tai "faint amusement"? Yes, Randolph the cowboy kept making me think of Dwayne as well... and I write child abuse like Soli and Sele? Good thing, or bad? I'm still not sure I went about that the right way... was it too... numb? Or graphic? Out-of-character? Anyway, glad to have evoked horror and happiness from you, even if only in small amounts; those are two emotions I'm always striving towards... And yes, I totally think you guys kick my ass on the darkness quotient, if only because my Fulton isn't all... you know, plus I like to give my stuff fairy-tale endings, and, well, you'll see...  
  
Sele: Hmm... Tai on painkillers, falling on her ass, Selena cackling away... you paint a lovely mental image, darling, and no, I would never think less of a giggling Sele... but a Slutty Spears Sele is something else entirely... *shudders* And no way do I want to trade Fultons... I could never handle writing the whole self-pity, self-mutilation, self-loathing thing you guys have going on... And yeah, Fulton is a little slow on the uptake when it comes to Portman-feelings... he really has no idea what to do with those, so he keeps pushing them away... He probably convinced himself he was just going cause he liked Portman's playing style, the deluded little twerp...  
  
Soli: Yeah, I did my best to make sure Portman doesn't fall into the nasty bully category, but don't you dare call those little pricks stoners. They'd be sniffing glue or gasoline if they couldn't get weed, so they get dubbed "losers" instead. Portman, Fulton, and Johnny all qualify, however, and you might as well toss me in there while you're at it, along with Nick Stahl from Disturbing Behaviour, because he is (not counting Fulton) my idea of the perfect male... Forcing school children to peddle goods should be against the law, doesn't your country consider education to be one of those unalienable rights, or whatever?... Woo hoo, woo hoo, my story rings true! (Yay for rhyme time!) Well, my kindly reviewer, that's why I draw on my own experiences as much as I can in this story, so I'm glad it's paying off... And if given the choice between obliterating bad memories and channelling them into a creative outlet, I'd pick creation every time, especially if the results are as spiffy as Star...  
  
Charlie's POV:  
  
"Try it again, honey!"  
  
I turned the key. The engine coughed and sputtered, but didn't catch. I tried again. Nothing.  
  
"Goddamnit!" I winced as my mother slammed the hood down in frustration. This was the last thing she needed. We were in the parking lot outside her work; I'd dropped by on my way back from hockey practice, and boy, was I glad I did. Ha. Ha ha. And, of course, ha.  
  
I got out of the car and walked over to where she was sitting on the curb with her head in her hands. When I sat down beside her, she looked up at me, and managed a weak smile. Then she sighed. "What am I going to do, Charlie? I can barely afford gas for the car, let alone repairs."  
  
"Look, you can bus to work for a few days. I get paid in a week, and we can use that to the car fixed."  
  
She shook her head, just as I knew she would. "Charlie, what did I tell you? That money's yours, you earn it. You need new shoes, and that helmet of yours is way too small..." Tears welled up in her eyes. "Look at this, I can't even support my own son! What kind of mother am I?"  
  
I snorted. "You mean, besides the best?"  
  
She drew herself up and smiled at me; it never took much to cheer her up. "Thanks, sweetie. And don't you worry about a thing; I'll manage somehow, I'm just upset. Crystal said she might be able to get me a weekend job, you know, at that massage parlour she works at..."  
  
I shuddered at the idea of my mom oiling down some sleazy old lech who kept grabbing her ass and telling her he had a king-sized bed back at his place, where they could make beautiful music together. Things hadn't been going too well for my mother lately, and this was the worst possible time to get car trouble, on top of everything else. Our apartment was falling to pieces, but the landlord refused to fix anything, and we were still getting bills and calls from collection agencies looking for Ryan, even though neither of us had laid sight on the guy since he made off in the middle of the night, almost five months ago.  
  
I didn't want to upset my mother any further, but I gestured tentatively to the Chrysler. "What are we going to do about it?"  
  
"I don't know. We can't just leave it here, but I can't pay to get it towed. Maybe I should just write it off." She laughed, but it was the bitter, mirthless little laugh that always made my stomach flip-flop in worry. My mother was very cheery and optimistic by nature; you knew it was bad when she laughed like that.  
  
"Well," I said, taking a deep breath and rising slowly to my feet. "Why don't I take a look at it, just in case?"  
  
My mom raised an eyebrow at me; she knew how clueless I was about stuff like this. I looked at her defensively, and she grinned. "Of course you can dear, but why don't you..."  
  
I stopped listening at that point. I'd just noticed someone watching us from an alleyway across the street. A very large someone. With a hockey stick.  
  
"Fulton!" I called, and I saw him glance around in surprise, as if looking for some other Fulton whose name I'd just called. "Hey, Fulton, come over here!"  
  
He shrugged, and walked over toward us, battered old hockey stick clutched in one ham-like fist, a skateboard under his other arm.  
  
"Charlie, do you know that... oh my..." My mom's voice dropped to a whisper and her eyes widened as she watched Fulton's approach. He stopped about eight feet from where the two of us were standing next to our piece of shit vehicle that had chosen to end its run in the back lot behind Mickey's Dining Car, and stood there, staring at us. My mom seemed even more taken aback, looking at him up close, and to be honest, I could hardly blame her.  
  
The kid was enormous; he topped my own six feet by at least an inch or two, but it was his stocky, muscular framework that was the most impressive; just one of his biceps appeared to be roughly the same diameter as my waist. Basically, he looked like he could crush anything and anyone that got in his way, and I had seen him do precisely that on many occasions over the years. It wasn't just a factor of size and strength, either; he really knew how to fight, and from the look of it, he'd been doing a lot of that lately. His nose and mouth were both cut and slightly swollen and he moved as if it caused him pain, but I imagined there was a guy out there somewhere (probably two or three) who looked much, much worse.  
  
He made me a little nervous, standing there, all towering and silent, with his arms folded across his chest, looking like he could eat me for breakfast. But I reminded myself of how long I'd known him, and how he had never done anything but protect me and my friends, even if it was in a creepy, Boo Radley-type of way.  
  
"How's it going, Fulton? I haven't seen you at school in awhile."  
  
He just blinked at me for a few moments, then nodded. "Yeah, I been... on sabbatical."  
  
I grinned up at him. "You don't say."  
  
A ghost of a smile touched his lips, and I breathed an internal sigh of relief. He nodded at the Chrysler. "Something wrong?"  
  
"Oh, don't get me started. Bloody thing up and died on us." I saw him looking at the car thoughtfully. "You don't know anything about cars, do you?"  
  
He shrugged. "A little bit. Want me to look at it?"  
  
I reached in the open driver side window, and popped the hood. "Please. Should I turn her over?" He nodded.  
  
My mom keep shooting little glances between Fulton and myself, as if she expected him to pull a gun on me at any moment and demand my money, and though I knew she was only nervous for my sake, it still annoyed me. With his long, black hair poking out from under a dark blue bandanna, wearing worn green army pants, dirty black high-tops and a ragged old Doors t- shirt, Fulton Reed did look rather like your run-of-the-mill street punk, but while I could hardly claim to be well-acquainted with the kid, I knew enough to know that an assessment based solely on his physical appearance was bound to be misleading.  
  
I turned the engine a couple of times, and of course, nothing happened. Fulton lowered the hood and turned to me. "You're not getting any gas."  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"Only two reasons your car won't start; you're not getting fuel, or you're not getting fire. You've got fire."  
  
"Oh. Is there anything you can do?"  
  
"Maybe. Got any tools?" I shook my head. "Okay, I can get some. Be back in a minute." He hopped onto his board and skated off around the corner before I had the chance to say anything else.  
  
"Who was that?" my mom demanded, coming over to stand beside me.  
  
"Fulton Reed. He's in my grade; we have classes together and stuff."  
  
"He's in high school?" she asked disbelievingly.  
  
I nodded. "He can help us; he's just gone to get some tools."  
  
"He's coming back? Oh, Charlie, I don't know..."  
  
"He's cool, mom, he's just real quiet. And don't do anything to scare him off; I think he's kinda shy."  
  
"Me, scare *him*? Charlie, did you *see* him?"  
  
"So he's a little big, that hardly makes him Charles Manson," I said angrily. "Everyone at school's afraid of him too; probably why he doesn't have any friends."  
  
Her expression softened at that. "You're right, Charlie. Look at me, judging people I don't even know. If you say he's okay, then I believe you."  
  
"Good, cause he's coming back."  
  
Fulton had brought a dented, rusty metal toolbox that he set at his feet, and, removing a couple of instruments, he lay down on the ground and scooted under the station wagon without a word. A little while later, he emerged, his hands and face smeared with oil.  
  
"That should do her, at least for the short term," he said, wiping his hands on his pants, leaving greasy black streaks all across them.  
  
"You're kidding, right?"  
  
He shrugged. "Try her."  
  
I hopped behind the wheel, turned the key, and had to choke back a squeal of delight as the engine roared to life.  
  
My mother was less self-conscious; she rushed over to embrace Fulton, but he backed up, looking at her warily, and she had to content herself with beaming at him while she hopped up and down. "Thankyouthankyouthankyou! Oh, my darling boy, what did you do?"  
  
He looked thoroughly uncomfortable as he muttered, "Your fuel line was clogged, I just flushed it out."  
  
"Can I do it myself if it happens again?"  
  
"Maybe, but it shouldn't normally get plugged up like that." He looked at me. "You guys been off-roading, or something?"  
  
"We went camping last weekend; there wasn't much of a road, so we just sort of ploughed though."  
  
He nodded. "That's the problem. Tank sits too low to drive rough like that. It should be okay if you stick to paved roads, otherwise, you're gonna blow the line, and you'll have to get a whole new gas tank."  
  
"Don't worry about that," I said. "Camping sucks anyway. Thanks a lot, Fulton."  
  
He finished packing up his tools, and stood up. "No problem." It was always the same with him; he'd show up with perfect timing, fix everything, and then disappear. That's what he was about to do, too, but my mom stopped him.  
  
"You know, we haven't even been introduced. I'm Casey Conway." She held out her hand, and eventually he took it.  
  
"Fulton Reed."  
  
"Well, Fulton Reed, you're a godsend. I mean it, you saved my life. You have to let me pay you something."  
  
She started digging through her purse, but Fulton backed up again, shaking his head. "No, I mean, uh, no thank you."  
  
"Here, it's the least I can do." She held out a twenty-dollar bill, but he only crossed his arms and stared fixedly at the ground.  
  
"Don't want it."  
  
She looked at him closely for a moment, then put the money away and grabbed his arm. "Fine, then you're coming to dinner. Get in the car."  
  
He looked around rather wildly, and I could tell he was getting ready to bolt, so I smiled at him reassuringly. "It's okay, Fulton, she just wants to thank you for helping us."  
  
He looked at me imploringly. "Really, it was nothing." I had to laugh; he seemed almost frightened.  
  
"To you, maybe, but not to us. Come on, it's just dinner. She makes a mean taco..."  
  
He stood there, blinking at me. Defying all my screaming instincts, I tried a teasing approach. "You know, Fulton, a little social interaction wouldn't kill you. We're not generally considered to be an intimidating family, and I promise not to start coming up to you in the halls at school, and talking to you like we're friends, or something."  
  
He grinned at that, a genuine grin, and the first I'd ever seen from him. Hell, I never even knew the kid had teeth!  
  
"Come on, you two!" my mom called from behind the wheel, giving the horn a happy little toot. "I'm starving!"  
  
As I climbed into the back seat of the Chrysler, after stuffing Fulton's stick and tool box into the trunk, I couldn't help thinking one thing, "Wait till Jesse and Guy hear about this!"  
  
***  
  
"And so they checked me from behind, and I went headfirst into the boards, which was actually a relief, since it left me in a state of semi- consciousness for the rest of the game, and I missed us getting flattened. I think they scored three goals in the last two minutes, didn't they, Fulton?"  
  
"Four."  
  
I laughed. "Four, was it? Even better!"  
  
Despite my initial apprehension at having the scariest, most unapproachable kid in the neighbourhood over for dinner, things were going rather well. I'd made my mom promise not to grill him with questions and stuff, as she is prone to do, and that seemed to have made all the difference.  
  
I didn't know if he was shy or private or just soft-spoken, but I'd had to swear that my mom wasn't going to give him the third degree just to get him to come out of my room when she called us for dinner.  
  
"I just never know how to act around them," was all the response I'd gotten when I asked him about it. I assumed he was referring to adults in general, and I had to agree with him there; I'd seen the way he was with our teachers.  
  
"She's not going to bite you, you know," I'd said teasingly, and upon seeing the look he gave me, started glancing around for weapons I could use to defend myself in the case of attack.  
  
"I know that, I just don't want to have to talk about what I want to do with myself after graduation, and what my parents do for a living, and shit."  
  
And so I'd warned my mom about my classmate's self-imposed reticence, and she'd reluctantly agreed to let him be. So all through dinner, my mom and I talked, and Fulton listened. This seemed to suit him just fine; he smiled and even laughed a few times, and while he only spoke when asked a direct question, towards the end of the meal, he was no longer answering exclusively in monosyllables. I thought about how long I'd known Fulton without ever knowing him at all. It made me feel guilty that I'd never had to guts to try to get acquainted with him until now, despite all he'd done for me over the years, though in my defence, he didn't exactly make it easy.  
  
The three of us were crammed around the tiny fold-out card table that had served as our kitchen table since we'd had to sell that a few months ago to pay the heating bill. Since it's normally just my mom and me now, we hadn't seen the point in shelling out for a new one just yet. I could see that my mom was dying to ask Fulton everything about himself; it wasn't so much that she was nosy--though that was part of it--but that she was honestly interested in other people, and she was as intrigued by this kid as I was. She'd managed to exhibit restraint thus far, and had contented herself instead with seeing that he ate enough food to see him through to his next lifetime. Curiosity finally got the better of her, however, and just as he finished his sixth taco, she asked, with an air of forced lightness: "So, Fulton, what team do you play for?"  
  
"I don't play hockey," he said, in a voice so soft that we both had to strain to hear him.  
  
"But you have your stick, and Charlie says you come to all his games."  
  
"I mean, I don't play for a team."  
  
"But why not, if you like the game so much?"  
  
The look on his face made it plain he'd rather gnaw his leg off at the knee than continue talking, but as that didn't appear to be an option, he turned to me. I could have stepped in and saved him, but this was a question that I had been asking myself for years, and the opportunity to find out proved too tempting. "Yeah, Fulton, why not?"  
  
He shot me a look that made it clear he blamed me for this, but I was no longer very intimidated. I did, however, feel rather guilty, when he muttered, "Can't skate," almost inaudibly, looking more miserable than I'd ever seen him.  
  
My mom must have felt the same way, because she too decided not to press the issue, rising up instead to fix him another couple tacos. "You should come and live with us, Fulton, maybe some of your habits would rub off on Charlie; he's as peckish as a little bird."  
  
Fulton snorted in laughter, and I glared indignantly at my mom. "Just because I can't eat seven or eight tacos in one sitting doesn't make me peckish; it makes me human."  
  
"Tweet, tweet, Spazway," Fulton said with a grin, taking an enormous bite of his taco.  
  
***  
  
After dinner, I was sitting on the counter in the bathroom while Fulton was buried under the sink, fiddling with the pipes. He'd already repaired our VCR, got the toilet flushing properly again, and was nearly done fixing the leaky plumbing as well, which had been causing serious water damage to our floor, as well as the ceiling of the place below.  
  
"Come on, Fulton, why not?" I pleaded, kicking him lightly in the knee. He scooted out from under the sink and glared up at me, a wrench in one hand, a soggy blue bandanna in the other. The pipes had leaked water all down his front, and he used the bandanna to wipe the dripping hair out of his eyes.  
  
"Oh, quit looking at me like that. I don't see why you're so scared..."  
  
"I'm *not* scared."  
  
"Then play with us, damnit! They're all nice kids, and you like them, I know you do, so what's the problem?" I had promised to meet Jesse and Guy and whoever else we could round up that evening for a little street hockey, and was trying to convince Fulton to join us, but the kid had some serious social problems, or something. He just shook his head, and disappeared back under the sink.  
  
"You know, Fulton," I said slyly, and I could hear him stop tinkering to listen to me. "If you don't play with us tonight, I might have to tell my mom that your parents are always away on business, so you never eat properly. I'm sure she'd agree we should have you over more often; think of the chances you'll have to get to know each other better."  
  
There were some clinking noises, and then Fulton re-appeared, shaking the water from his eyes and getting to his feet. He stared at me for a long moment, displeasure plain in his eyes.  
  
"I'll take that as a yes," I said happily, hopping down off the counter and grabbing his arm. "Come on."  
  
***  
  
Hawks. Though we were still pretty far away, I could make out four of them, in their black and blue jerseys and shiny new Rollerblades, their sticks unmarred by dents and dog bites, wearing equipment that wasn't held together by bubble gum and masking tape. They were laughing and jeering as they circled four other kids, who looked to be Jesse, Guy, and a couple other kids we knew who weren't on the team, Mark Whalley and Lester Averman.  
  
I looked over at Fulton; he was watching the Hawks with what can only be described as seething fury; his teeth bared slightly, his knuckles white from clutching his stick so hard. Suddenly, I remembered why Fulton made everyone nervous, even those he'd never so much as looked at the wrong way. I grinned to myself; this was one time that the Hawks weren't going to come out on top. We started walking a little faster.  
  
"Don't you guys ever get tired of being losers?" a kid named Harper Mason asked mockingly.  
  
"Whatever, cake-eater. We could take you guys any day." Jesse, of course, whose specialty had always been writing checks his body couldn't cash. Sure, he and Guy could hold their own against these guys, but Mark and Les? They'd be running for the hills before anyone threw a punch.  
  
"Oh, yeah? The rest of your buddies feel the same way?"  
  
As if to confirm this, Averman spoke up. "Uh, sir? I'd just like to go on record that no, I do not feel the same way. In fact--"  
  
"Shut up, Averman," Jesse cut in angrily, glaring up at the Hawks. "You guys think you're all that, don't you? Well, fancy equipment don't mean shit if you haven't got the skills to back it up."  
  
"You're saying *we* can't play?"  
  
"I'm saying you're a bunch of loud-mouthed, cake-eating assholes in Eddie Bauer who probably piss CK One."  
  
"Wanna see if they bleed it, too?"  
  
Another thing that made Fulton so great at fighting; he always knew what to say in moments like these; I never could have come up with something like that on the spot. We had approached the Hawks from behind, and now they spun around to see Fulton, arms crossed, regarding them appraisingly. There was a slight smile on his lips that made it clear he was going to enjoy what he was about to do. For someone who didn't talk much, he sure made himself heard with perfect clarity.  
  
"Oh, thank God," Averman muttered.  
  
Fulton's sudden appearance had ruffled more than a few Hawk feathers, and they looked back and forth at each other, trying to decide what to do next.  
  
Guy stepped forward, placing himself between Fulton and the Hawks, and I was reminded of the fact that he was, in technical terms, anyway, one of them. "Look, nobody wants a fight, so why don't we all just back off and go home?" he asked, his voice calm, his tone placating.  
  
"Should have known you'd be a traitor, Germaine," the biggest one of them, Tracy McGillis said angrily, shoving him in the chest. "Dad never should have let you join. I told him you were nothing but white trash, just like the rest of these rejects."  
  
WHAM. Tracy flew backwards a few feet, and landed hard on the asphalt. He didn't get up. Fulton stared docilely at the three remaining Hawks, massaging his knuckles absent-mindedly. "That was even more fun than I thought it would be. Can I do it again?"  
  
I heard the sound of a motor approaching, and the next thing I knew, Dean Portman had materialised on my left. He climbed off the old red and white dirt bike he was riding, and strode over to where we were all gathered, tucking his helmet under his arm as he did so.  
  
"What the hell's going on here?"  
  
The Hawks brightened at his arrival; clearly, they thought he was going to save their collective asses. "That goon knocked Tracy out cold!" one of them cried, gesturing to the prostrate form of his fallen comrade.  
  
"So he did," Portman observed, giving Tracy a poke in the ribs with his boot. Tracy groaned slightly, but didn't open his eyes. "And who is the goon responsible for this?"  
  
Fulton took a step forward, so that he and Portman were less than a foot apart. The rest of us backed up automatically, forming a circle around the two boys, who stood there, sizing each other up in silence. I wondered if Fulton would be able to take this Portman kid. I wondered what would happen to the rest of us if he couldn't. But most of all, I wondered what the response time was for an ambulance in this neighbourhood. I bet it wasn't good. 


	7. Serendipity, and love's machinations

*As of Tuesday, and until two weeks from next Tuesday, I am free from the shackles of academia! I apologise for the delay in updating, but hopefully I'll be writing more, at least in the short term. Bored? Need a new fic to read? Check out my and Schiz's new collaboration, A World Apart (links to be found in both our profiles), if you're in the mood for something new!*  
  
Cake-Eater: I'll speak for the sentence: Do you, quimby, take this sentence to be your lawfully wedded... mate? Anyway, I give you my blessing! I must say, I've never gotten so much feedback on a single line before. "Tweet, tweet, Spazway," was hella popular! Hee, hee, I thought that Guy-the-Hawk would bother you, his most loyal fan! Don't worry, he'll be back with the Fishies in no time! Want to do your poor, loser of a hero a favour? Leave a review for chapter 4! Say anything! It's just that (don't laugh), you've reviewed every single other chapter I've ever posted here, and I consider you something of a good luck charm!  
  
Tai: Watch this, I won't say a thing about needing more from you guys: I NEED MORE FROM YOU GUYS!!! Oops. Oh, well. Yeah, I too was worried about what would happen if my boys really went at it, so I had to cut it short... Hope the ankle is healing in a non-crooked fashion, and... but you know what else I'm hoping for, don't you? By the way, I worship both Oz and Wonderland, so if you were serious about the story, I'd be first in line...  
  
Solis: Holy shit, Fulton as a porno handyman? Brilliant! Reminds me of the first porn movie I ever saw: The Ups and Downs of a Handyman. Pretty soft- core, but funny. Late-night Showcase rules! Yeah, I too was once almost sucked in by the glue-sniffing crowd; they're sneaky little fucks; you gotta watch 'em! And Fult's mom reminds you of yours? Hmmm... I like her, but I think I'm the only one...  
  
Selena: Hmm... Clash, Doors, and Zep... Now that's more like it. However, I agree with you on both the chap thing, and the voice thing. At least she knows what she wants, and kudos to her for releasing three vastly diverse music videos, and possibly even empowering our entire gender with one or two of them... *looks around fearfully* God, I hope Fulton didn't hear me say that...  
  
RockandRoll: Not sure I'll live up to your hopes for action here, but I have more planned for the future. Yeah, you were the one who told me about Corey Feldman voicing Donatello... I went back and watched them both again, and now I wonder how I could have missed it before... Don't tell me you like T3 as much as T2? They don't even compare, in my book...  
  
Kelly: Awww, tragic story about your car, don't you hate it when they die like that? Yeah, I try to make sure I only write about stuff of which I have at least passing knowledge, I hate reading mistakes in other people's stuff...  
  
Star: Fellow Lemche, Stahl, and bash-slash addict, I'm so glad you've caught on! Hope it lives up to your expectations, and I renew my request for more yucca in Shoebox!  
  
Ryder Web: Oooh, a newbie reviewer, always a pleasure. *extends hand* Welcome! Originality is what I strive for!  
  
Grasshopper: Here are some confrontations for you; nurture them, and they will one day become bash-slash!  
  
QteCuttlfish: Hey, I remember you! First or second chapter of Bash Brothers, right? One of my first reviews! Don't worry; things will get better soon!  
  
And last, but very far from least: SHIZZIE! So sorry, hon, but the lab's about to close! I'll be in tomorrow, though, send you a nice fat email! Much love!  
  
Portman's POV:  
  
Well, this was new. I stood, facing the kid whose ass I was about to kick, feeling the eager, expectant stares of the Hawks behind me pressing down upon my shoulders like some heavy weight. Soon they would disappear, become formless and indistinct, their voices fading into white noise when the fight began.  
  
Moments passed, nothing happened. The burden was on me to make the first move, but for some reason, I hesitated. It wasn't fear, though the kid did look like he might be a more worthy adversary than most of the punks I came across; then again, he was probably as dumb as an ox, moving slowly, relying too much on his strength. Not quite as tall as me, but at least twenty pounds heavier, his dark, fathomless eyes came to rest on my own, seeming to bore holes right through my skull. I'd have to move in fast, and pull back faster if I wanted to take him down without getting hurt, so why was I stalling? I couldn't help noticing the over-familiarity of the situation; the whole thing just smacked of those old gangland movies from the '50's and '60's: Blackboard Jungle, West Side Story, The Wanderers...  
  
My opponent sure had the look of a modern-day Jet, and I probably fit the profile like a glove, myself. Imagine how clichéd we'd look to someone walking by... why was I even thinking this? Why wasn't my mind wiping itself clean, descending into fight mode? First Angel, now this; what was going one with me? I was too young to be having a mid-life crisis. With the possible exception of sex, fighting was what I did best. Ask anyone. If I didn't have that anymore, what was left?  
  
Apparently having had enough of my dawdling, my body divorced itself from my mind, and I was moving. My first punch got him right in the mouth, mashing his lips back against his teeth. I felt sharp pain as they cut into my hand. I'd caught him off-guard, but I could tell he was used to being hit. He stumbled, but didn't fall, and when my next blow came, he planted his feet and jerked his head back, my fist glancing off his cheekbone.  
  
I hopped away out of range, and was about to move in again, when I stopped. The kid was leaning forward, his hands on his knees, spitting mouthfuls of blood onto the ground. He was laughing quietly. "Thank you," he said, straightening up and fixing me with a glare that probably would have intimidated anyone else. Not to say I was immune from its effects, but I overcame quickly.  
  
"Anytime," I snapped, angry with myself for having been first startled, and then almost scared by this guy. I aimed another blow at him, but he dodged this time, and cracked me in the temple.  
  
I went down hard; I'd never been hit like that in my life. My vision swam and my ears rang as the world tilted crazily. For a moment, I thought I was going to pass out, but the idea so revolted me, that I managed to fight it off. When I had partially regained my senses, I saw that the kid had backed off a bit, and I got to my feet, a tad unsteadily.  
  
What had just happened? I hadn't been knocked down by one guy since I was twelve, and never by one hit. The kid was staring at me, and when I met his eyes, he grinned, and coked one eyebrow, as if to say: "Had enough?"  
  
All the muscles in my arms tensed up as I imagined how good it would feel to break this asshole's nose, maybe shatter his jaw. Blood still poured from his lower lip, dripping down his chin and onto the ground. He didn't move to wipe it away.  
  
Who did this guy think he was? Didn't he know I'd never lost a fight? I'd have to take him down, so he couldn't get off another shot like that. I charged him, swiftly and suddenly, wrapping my arms around his waist. We hit the asphalt hard, and rolled over; I pinned his shoulder to the ground, and slammed my fist into his face as hard as I could, once, twice, feeling a rush of fierce joy each time I connected.  
  
He blocked my third shot and, enclosing my fist in his own, bit down hard on my arm. I hit him in the face until he let go, and we rolled over, a flurry of limbs and flying knuckles. Up close like this, we were more evenly matched; he was far more experienced than I'd taken him for. Coming out on top was not going to be easy. This thought was punctuated by him landing a blow to my stomach that completely voided me of all oxygen. He sat on my chest while I gasped, and wondered vaguely why he didn't finish me off while I was vulnerable. Then I heard someone yell something, and the next thing I knew, I was back on the sidewalk, and there wasn't anyone on my chest anymore.  
  
I looked up just in time to see a blue sports car--a Lexus--screech to a halt about fifteen feet away. A blond guy stuck his head out the window and jabbed his middle finger in the air and yelling: "Fucking kids, get off the road!" before gunning the engine and taking off. He had one of those idiotic personalized license plates: JUST WIN.  
  
As he sped away, the kid I was fighting grabbed a rock and heaved it at the car, breaking out one of the taillights; I had to bite back a cheer. His eyes flashing furiously, he still wore the same bloody, shit-eating grin, as he turned to me. "Where were we?"  
  
"Kick his ass, Portman!"  
  
We both turned. It was Tracy, who had apparently regained consciousness at some point during our melee, and was now shouting encouragements. My stomach turned at the sight of him. Tracy McGillis. Son of the coach, undeserving captain of the team, and all-round fuckstick. I wondered what he'd done to piss this kid off; I felt rather like decking him myself.  
  
I turned back to the kid. "By the way, why'd you hit him in the first place?"  
  
He stared at me, but didn't answer. Arms crossed, he looked like he was waiting for the punch line of a bad joke. One of his friends, a black kid I'd seen around school, stepped forward, looking up at me angrily. "Your boys here thought it might be fun to hassle us. McGillis was talking shit to Guy, Fulton nailed him, what more do you need?" For the first time, I looked at the kids who gathered behind... Fulton, his name was. Never heard it before, it was probably his last name. There were four of the, not counting Fulton and the black kid. The blond kid, I recognized as the captain of the Swordfish, this hockey team we'd creamed in my first week as a Hawk. Conway, his name was. The freckled kid was in my English class, never shut up. They guy with the nose ring was Mark something-or-other; I'd seen him around parties and stuff, and the last one was a Hawk himself, #00, Guy Germaine.  
  
Kind of shy and soft-spoken, Guy was the only player who'd so much as given me the time of day since I'd joined, the only one who didn't look at me like I was a bomb about to go off. I liked him, and he was a damn good player, too; he wasn't a flashy forward like Banks, but he was smart, sure- handed and consistent, chipping away at the other team's defences until he found a weakness. A natural peacekeeper, he often tried to break up fights on the ice, and lately, I had expanded my enforcer duties to encompass keeping him from getting crushed, as well. Despite his talent, he wasn't exactly Hawks material, and I imagined he'd been recruited by McGillis, like I had; he was clearly friends with these other kids. I wondered if he knew what he was doing; the team would make like hell for him from now on, if they let him play at all.  
  
And then I knew why I'd been so slow to get into this thing. I was fighting a kid I didn't know, for a bunch of kids I didn't like, and I hadn't even seen what started it. "Tracy, go fuck yourself."  
  
I saw this Fulton kid grin at that, and at the look of mingled shock and dismay on McGillis' face. Come to think of it, he must have pulled me out of the way to avoid getting turned into roadkill by the "just win" asshole in the Lexus. If that was the case, and if what the black kid had said was true--and I imagined it was--then it looked as if I'd been fighting on the wrong side. But now what could I do? I'd started this thing, and if I tried to call a truce now, I'd look like the biggest pussy in the world. Served me right for joining some preppy hockey team.  
  
Whether Fulton divined all this from looking at me, I'll never know, but the next thing I knew, he turned to his friends and said quietly, "Let's go."  
  
They started to leave, and the Hawks looked from them to me in disbelief. "You're just gonna let them go?" I shrugged.  
  
"Hey, Germaine!" Tracy called out, his face flushed with rage. "You think you'll still have a place on this team by tomorrow, think again!"  
  
Fulton took a step towards them, but Guy held him back. "That's a real shame, Tracy," he said quietly. "And just when I was starting to like you, too."  
  
"Yeah, and he didn't fit in with you guys, anyway; he doesn't have a ten- foot stick up his ass! He's playing for our team again!" the black kid snapped.  
  
"You mean you actually call that bunch of losers a team?" Harper sneered. "Too bad we've seen you play."  
  
"Yeah," my wingman, David Price, piped up. "Guy wouldn't even had a helmet if Coach hadn't taken pity on him, and bought him one."  
  
"You snotty little pricks," I said furiously, rounding on them. "He's a better player than all of you put together!"  
  
"That so?" Tracy said coldly. "You like them so much, why don't you go play for them too, trailer-boy?"  
  
"What did you say?" Maybe I shouldn't kill him. Maybe he hit his head on the sidewalk.  
  
"Oh, I'm sorry," he cooed. "Do I have to translate? How do you say: "you're off the team, asshole," in Neanderthal?"  
  
"Like this." I hit him in the face as hard as I could, and the bitch went down again.  
  
***  
  
You don't choose who you fall in love with, wasn't that what people always said? Most of that Harlequin romance stuff was bullshit, of course, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't see the truth in that little euphemism. If anyone ever told me I'd find true love at seventeen--in Minneapolis' East End, no less--I'd have suspected prolonged heavy drug use. And if they told me who was destined to become--in what would later seem an impossibly short period of time--the object of my adulation, I'd have recommended a CAT scan.  
  
Not to say that I'd never admired the male form, but my attraction for the opposite sex had always eclipsed this other one, and I'd mostly written off anything else as a hormonal blip. From a psychiatric point of view, given my mother's likely damaging influence, my own sexual track record, and the fact that all this took place during a period of great change in my life, perhaps what happened wasn't so surprising after all. While I'd learned long ago that I slipped easily into the role of "hetero slut puppy," I had only just realised that it wasn't a part I wanted to be playing for the rest of my life, and he offered me an escape from that, among other things.  
  
But I'm getting ahead of myself. As I made my way back from the quarry behind the ice rink that night, I was aware of neither loves' machinations, nor my latent bisexuality. I'd just succeeded in jumping a pit before dozens of gaping kids, so I was feeling pretty good. I was replaying the jump in my mind, trying to recapture the feeling of total freedom, of weightlessness, when time seemed to stand still in that prolonged moment of hangtime before I began to drop... I was on my way home to take a quick shower and change my clothes, maybe grab something to eat, before heading out again. There were several parties going on that night, and I was determined to hit them all--I wanted nothing more than to get thoroughly tanked; something to take my mind off the dismal end my hockey-playing career had met earlier that evening.  
  
I was a few blocks from home; I'd just turned onto Plymouth when I heard it, a crack, like gunfire, or a car backfiring. It came from far down the street,, the noise carried on the wind, taking on a hollow, echoing quality. A few moments later, I heard it again, clearer as I approached, and followed almost immediately by a heavy thump.  
  
I stopped my bike, got off, and walked over to the black-lipped mouth of the alley from which the noises had originated. I'll never forget how he emerged from the shadows to stand in the dim, sickly yellow glow of the streetlight; it was like he had been brought forth from nothing, like some midnight god had moulded him from the darkness. He would be invisible to anyone else; if someone came along, they would see only me, standing alone at the edge of the world, staring off into space.  
  
Months later, I asked him what he remembered of that night, how I'd appeared to him. He said I'd looked "like the night on fire," that, silhouetted from behind by the streetlight, I'd been a black shape that burned with jagged light at its edges, my features indistinguishable. The way his eyes glowed when he told me that, I knew the moment had meant something to him as well. Maybe more. Always more.  
  
"You again, huh? You nearly killed me."  
  
He was wearing black leather motorcycle gloves, his thick, strong fingers protruding from their cropped tips. He leaned against his hockey stick, squinting at me through the darkness. "That's a bit of an exaggeration. You look fine to me."  
  
I laughed, and started towards him. He tensed, but didn't move. "I didn't mean today. It was you, wasn't it? Who broke the Rabbit's windows?  
  
He shrugged. "So?"  
  
I stopped a few feet away from him, and leaned back against the wall. I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out the cigarettes I'd promised to bring home to my mother that day. I stuck one of them between my lips, watching him through hooded lids as I lit it. I exhaled, and tried to look like James Dean; I've been told I look very sexy with a cigarette.  
  
"So nothing. A little night time target practice?" I gestured to the worn- out trunk that stood up-ended behind me. "Can I watch?"  
  
He looked at me with something akin to disbelief, but I think there was fear there, as well. "What?"  
  
"You must have a pretty good slapshot to break out two windows like that. Can I see it?" I spoke casually, with mild curiosity, like I didn't really care one way or another. Maybe I didn't, maybe that came later, but I think I knew, even then, that I'd come across something rare.  
  
He stood there, considering, and I could tell he was trying to think of a reason to avoid it. When he couldn't come up with anything, he shrugged, reached down into the darkness that had settled at his feet, and pulled out a puck. It was as if he'd conjured it up from the night air, re-arranged the molecules to form this hard, rubber disk. I was afraid to touch it.  
  
He dropped the puck at his feet. "You might want to get out of the way."  
  
Once I'd positioned myself against the far wall, I saw him glance at me out of the corner of his eye, and then he made his shot.  
  
Wow. It cleared the top of the case by a few inches, and sailed across the street and down the alley opposite in an eyeblink. There was a cacophony of sounds; crashes and metallic clangings, before the puck--excuse me, bat out of hell--finally came to rest, the air humming slightly in the sudden silence.  
  
I turned to face him, and took a long drag on my cigarette. Too long. I wasn't a big smoker, and I nearly choked, but managed to cover it up. "My name's Dean Portman, by the way."  
  
"Fulton Reed."  
  
"Well," I said slowly, refusing to let any of the emotions I was feeling reveal themselves on my face. "Guess this explains a bit."  
  
"Explains what?"  
  
"How you nearly put me out with one shot today." My fingers rose to my temple, feeling the bruised, swollen flesh. I gestured down the alley, in the direction the puck had gone. "I've never seen anything like that before. Where'd you learn to shoot like that?"  
  
"I didn't learn, I just do it."  
  
"Well, you sure do it good. How come you don't play for your friends' team?"  
  
"They're, uh, not my friends."  
  
"Really? Cause you sure could have fooled me."  
  
He shuffled his feet. "I've known them a long time, that's all."  
  
"Right. Cause all my friends are strangers."  
  
He grinned. "Right." Standing in the light the way he was, I could see a thick gash on his lower lip. There was a knot above his left eye, and his right cheekbone was already darkening to purple.  
  
"Did I do that?"  
  
He snorted. "You kidding? You hit like a ten-year-old. I got these from fighting the Lexus guy."  
  
"Oh, yeah? He sure looked like a tough customer; probably gets male manicures, or something."  
  
"Damn straight." He laughed, and shook his head. "Stupid little prick, I've seen him around before, playing slalom with the pedestrians. Think he's compensating for something with that car?" He looked surprised with himself for having strung so many words together at once.  
  
I saw a puck wedged behind a garbage can. I bent to pick it up, and tossed it in the air a few times. I felt his eyes on me. "You off the team?" he asked.  
  
"Guess so." I shrugged. "Whatever, I don't care. Bunch of preppy ass-wipes, they can all go blow me."  
  
"That'd be something to see." I threw the puck at him, and he caught it one- handed. "You could play for the Swordfish, you know."  
  
"After today, are you kidding? Besides, they're barely a team."  
  
"Guy'll be back with them now, he's good. Just ask Charlie; they could use a guy like you."  
  
"How 'bout two guys like me? If we both joined, I bet we could pluck a few Hawks, have some fun."  
  
His face darkened, and he seemed to drift backwards a bit, into the shadows. "I don't play hockey."  
  
I had to laugh. "Again, you could have fooled me, what with the stick and pucks and everything... Wait a minute." Suddenly, I thought I remembered... not his face, but his body, his clothes. "I've seen you before." He shook his head, but now I was certain. "Yeah, I have. I've seen you at hockey games. High up in the bleachers, left hand side. Every game. Come on, man, don't give me this "I don't play hockey" bullshit."  
  
"I don't... I can't... I have to go." He grabbed his stick and took off, his feet pounding out a frantic rhythm on the pavement. He ran down the alley and turned the corner, and like that, he was gone.  
  
***  
  
And that was how it began. After he left, I went home, showered, got dressed, nuked myself a TV dinner, and went back out. According to plan, I drank myself into complete oblivion. Halfway through the second party, some guys and I went for a drive, and ended up egging the McGillis residence. It made the local papers that week. "Local coach targeted by hoodlums," the headline proclaimed.  
  
I didn't remember much after that, but I woke up the next morning in a strange bedroom next to a cute, freckle-faced girl named Sam. I think we'd slept together once before, a party at my friend Ricky's last year. I wondered if she remembered. More than that, though, I wondered about Fulton Reed. He was... a weird kid, to say the least. But interesting. I wondered idly what his deal was, as I lay in the bed, my head already pounding, my stomach queasy, and if I should take his advice about the Swordfish.  
  
Looking back on it now, it seemed almost surreal. All those circumstances coming together, bringing us into contact... what were the chances? First the hockey puck, then the fight... was it nothing more than luck? What if I'd taken a different path home that night, or come a little later, a little earlier? It was almost enough to make me believe in God. I told all this to Fulton once, and he just smiled.  
  
"Serendipity," he said.  
  
I didn't ask him what it meant, but I looked it up the next day, and while it provided no new answers, seeing everything I felt summed up in eleven little letters like that, it felt good. It meant other people had been thinking the same stuff I was, so they'd had to come up with a way to say it.  
  
Serendipity. What a beautiful word. 


	8. You have to start somewhere

Portman's POV:  
  
Though I kept an eye out for him all weekend, peering down every alley I passed, I didn't see Fulton again till Monday. By showing up on time for a change, and actually listening while the teachers took attendance, I found out we had several classes together, though he was present for none of them. He had been on my mind a lot in the past few days. I had been struck by his singularity; to say that he didn't belong was an understatement, but it was more than that. Nothing about him seemed to make much sense; it was as if he went against all the laws of nature and society that governed people's lives, or lives in the East End, in any case. How could I know this after only a few brief encounters? You're asking the wrong guy; Fulton, he's the one with all the answers. All I knew was that he was like nobody else I'd ever met, and I liked that.  
  
I had spent all Sunday with Johnny, helping him in the greenhouse, seeding new plants, transplanting others, and trying to avoid going home. My mother had been seeing a guy from work named Bud, and since Bud made attempts at male boding whenever I was around--mainly through loud, rude jokes and promises to take me hunting or fishing over the long weekend--I made it my mission not to be.  
  
I told Johnny what had happened that Friday, and his take on the matter was similar to my own: that Fulton sounded interesting, and that he warranted further investigation, particularly where it came to his reluctance to play hockey. The two of us were unable to agree on a logical explanation for this, though Johnny surmised that he couldn't afford equipment, and I guess shyness or fear of crowds as the reason. Johnny also thought my joining the Swordfish was a great idea, pointing out that I was always complaining about the kids I played with, and that being on a winning team had never been very important to me.  
  
"It'll be like the Bad News Bears, and you'll be the tough kid!" he'd exclaimed excitedly, swearing he'd come to all my games if I joined. Johnny loved underdogs.  
  
So I was hanging in the parking lot after school, wishing I was drunk enough to be entertained by the conversations going on around me, when I spotted the Swordfish captain standing by the back doors. He was alone for once, so I hailed him over, meeting him halfway so the kids I was with couldn't hear us.  
  
The Conway kid--Charlie, Fulton had called him--didn't seem that surprised to be approached by me; as soon as I mentioned hockey, his face lit up and he invited me to join before I even had the chance to ask. He said that Guy had spoken to him about me, and that between that, and what he'd seen, he thought I'd be a real asset to the Swordfish.  
  
I wondered if the rest of the team felt the same way, and he replied-- rather cheekily, I thought--that my charms would soon win them over, and that Jesse--the mouthy black kid from Friday's fight--had a bit of a trust issue with newbies, but that he'd get over it soon enough. This reminded me of Fulton, but when I asked Conway why he wasn't on the team, he responded vaguely. It was only when I made a rather menacing allusion to my 60-lb advantage that he mumbled something about skating and, after giving me the date and time of the next practice, hurried off.  
  
I took my dirtbike to the quarry and tore around for a while, contemplating my new-found fishiness. I found myself looking forward to practice; somehow, over the years, hockey had become an important part of my life, and being booted from the Hawks had been surprisingly devastating. To be honest, I'd had no idea that the game meant that much to me, but I guess it did. Conway seemed like a decent captain; the responsible, do-gooder type, and I'd been impressed with the balls on that Jesse kid, as well.  
  
I'd seen Tracy that day at school; one eye was swollen shut, and the entire left side of his face had all the colour of a Canadian sunrise. I laughed when I saw him, and he only scowled and shuffled away, but Conway told me McGillis had tried to challenge him and his team to a showdown. He hadn't accepted, but he was worried Tracy would go to Jesse next, and he would never back down. I told him not to worry about it, and that while we'd likely lose terribly, I'd do my best to keep them from getting pulverised and vowed to take as many Hawks down with us as I could. He smiled, and said he was looking forward to playing with me. I felt a strange glow of pride at that; I'd never given a shit what any of those prepsters thought of me, but for some reason, I found myself wanting to be liked and accepted by Charlie and his team.  
  
My mind always seemed to work best if my body was in motion: walking or driving or playing hockey, and dirtbiking was no exception. The wind whipped my hair across my face, and I thought about everything that had been happening lately; it seemed like pages torn from someone else's life, not my own. I was in alien territory, here, and I was no longer sure how I felt about anything. It was like I was going soft, or giving in to something, but I had no idea what it was. Conway and his friends were good kids; did I really think I'd fit in with them? I wished Fulton was on the team, too; he seemed more like my kind of people. Charlie had said he couldn't skate; just like me, when I was still living in Chicago. I remembered the ice skates I'd outgrown last year, and wondered if they would fit him.  
  
For a moment, I wondered if I really wanted to get into this. It was going to be big, I could tell... Who was I kidding? I knew what I was going to do. All the years of my life had always seemed to bleed together, like a painting left in the rain; the same stories acted out again and again, only with different settings and actors, but now things were changing. I was changing, and I figured the best thing would be to go with it, and see which way the winds took me. I mean, it wasn't as if I had much of anything to lose, was it?  
  
I'd always felt that life was like a movie: shit happened, good and bad, and I just took it as it came, and tried to make the best of things. Everyone lived the lives they were given, and I had no greater ambition than to have as much fun as possible with the one I'd got. I took for granted the inevitability of things, because I knew all paths led back to the same place. But not anymore. It was the beginning of the end of my passive fatalism, perhaps. A week ago, a month ago, I think I'd have just shrugged him off, and gone on with my life, tried to forget about him. But not that day. I knew he'd never come looking for me, so I went looking for him. I could feel the possibilities being born from my decision, branching off in countless, unknown directions that sent shivers of excitement up my spine as I left the quarry, and went in search of an alternate ending.  
  
***  
  
It was past one a.m. when I finally found him. He was lying on his back on the raised island in the middle of the skate bowl, staring up at the sky, his breath coming out in tiny white clouds. Now that November had rolled around, it was really cooling down, and I felt my arms break out in goosebumps as I stopped the bike and took off my helmet. He wasn't even wearing a jacket.  
  
"Aren't you freezing your ass off?" I asked as I ducked under the metal railing that bordered the bowl.  
  
He propped himself up on an elbow, and watched me approach. He gestured to the plain black toque he wore. "You lose 80% of your body heat through your head; I'm warmer than you are."  
  
I sat down beside him. "Is that true?" He shrugged, and I tried again. "You skate?" Christ, he was sitting in a skate park with a board beside him, and that was the best thing I could think to ask?  
  
He shrugged again. "A bit. You?"  
  
"Nah. I used to, then I got a bit too big for it. Took up dirtbiking instead." I looked around me. Tall trees grew on all sides, muffling the sounds of traffic. The night was cool and clear, and the stars shone brightly. It was almost beautiful. "You hang here a lot?"  
  
"Sometimes, but I mostly just skate to get around; I'm no good at tricks. I can only grind a few feet, and then I always overbalance."  
  
A smile threatened to break out on my face as I imagined Fulton going head over heels on a skateboard. "Hey, I took your advice, by the way."  
  
He sat up straight. "About hockey? You're a Swordfish now?"  
  
"You better believe it. You gonna come and watch us play, or do you only go to Hawks games?"  
  
"Uh, no, I don't usually... I'll be there."  
  
"But you won't play."  
  
He started to stand up, but I put my hand on his shoulder. "Stay. Charlie told me you can't skate, and I--"  
  
"He what?" His features hardened in anger, and I wished I hadn't said anything. "I should go." He shook off my arm, and got to his feet, grabbing his board.  
  
His back was to me. He was leaving again, and I was just watching him go... "Wait!" I called. "What size shoe do you wear?"  
  
He didn't answer for a long time, and I figured that was it, he didn't want anything to do with me. Not like I cared; he'd just seemed like someone I'd like to know...  
  
"Twelve and a half." He was standing a few feet away, staring at me so intently that I half-expected laser beams to come shooting out of his eyes, reducing me to a smouldering pile of ashes.  
  
Somehow, he knew exactly what I meant, and by responding to my shoe-size query, he was already agreeing to my unspoken proposal to teach him to skate. It didn't occur to me to marvel at this wordless communication until much later; at the time it seemed perfectly natural, as I got on my bike, and he on his board, and we took off, side by side, down the road.  
  
***  
  
Fulton's POV:  
  
The light ahead of us turned from green to red, after the brief, perfunctory switch to amber, and Portman killed his engine and coasted to a halt. I skated hard to catch up, and each time I pushed off against the pavement I felt as if I was taking off: on a rocket ship, or sailing off a cliff, like Thelma and Louise at the end of that movie. When I was a kid, I dreamed about being in that car. I knew they'd find something amazing on the canyon floor, or at least on the way down there. They'd find beauty, perhaps; answers to unanswered questions. The moment before impact must have been glorious.  
  
Twelve and a half, I'd said. And now here I was, with Portman, going somewhere (I assumed the ice rink) in the middle of the night. I'd wanted to stop myself from speaking, but the words were jerked out of me, violently, as if by a fisherman's hook. I was terrified I would say something, or do something, to reveal myself to him, how I felt. To keep ahold of my sanity, I had convinced myself that this was the one night I'd have with Portman, before he disappeared forever, and everything would go back to the way it used to be, when I didn't feel like I was falling, or spinning out of control all the time. And then I'd always have this to look back on, and relive.  
  
I was a master at separating myself from the reality around me, and I used this talent most vigorously to convince myself that none of this was real. Just another one of my elaborate fantasies. I had to; it was all too good to be true.  
  
We stopped outside an apartment complex, and I waited while he went inside, emerging soon after with a hockey bag slung over his shoulder. Then we were at the rink, and Portman was using a key to get in, and even though he said something about snagging a copy from his ex-coach, I knew it was just a movie-land excuse. He had a key because things worked out like that in dreams.  
  
The only security was a night cop who patrolled the perimeter now and again, so once we were inside, we were home free. The light switches by the door didn't work, so together we walked around in the near darkness, feeling our way along the walls. I finally found the breaker panel, and turned on the lights in the hallway, and on the ice. Not the overhead fluorescents, though, so the place was still nice and dim.  
  
We sat down on a bench beside the rink, and Portman dropped his bag on the floor, and started going through it, pulling out pads, pucks, and two pairs of skates, one shiny and new, the other old and worn, with frayed, broken laces and a faded NOFX sticker on one of them.  
  
"When I joined the Hawks, Coach bought me new skates and gear and everything," he said, handing the old ones to me. "You can have all my old stuff, I don't need it anymore." He stuck out his leg and wiggled his toes. "I'm a thirteen and a half now."  
  
My feet slipped easily into the skates, they seemed to be tailored just for me. Of course he'd have gear for me to use; this was a dream, remember?  
  
With the skates on, I was at least four inches taller, and the world had a new perspective as I hobbled out onto the ice. I felt... big, powerful. The effect was ruined when Portman grabbed me from behind and I jumped, landing hard on my ass.  
  
"Sorry," he laughed, looking down at me for a moment before extending a hand to help me up. "Mind if I do a few warm-up laps before we start?"  
  
I shook my head, and as he sped around the rink, I tried not to imagine what it would feel like to hold his body in my arms, to bury my face in his neck and breathe him in, like gas at a dentist's office. I bet he smelled divine.  
  
"So," he said, interrupting my lusting as he came to a sudden stop in front of me, sending up a shower of ice. "You've really never done this before?" I shook my head, and he grinned. "Well, you gotta start somewhere. At least you can skateboard; maybe that'll help. Come on."  
  
He grabbed my hands, and I thanked god for the sublime creation that was the glove, because as soon as he did, my palms grew slick and moist.  
  
I knew the correct form, had watched games innumerable, but my feet felt strange and awkward. Portman skated backwards, half-pulling me along, giving me pointers and encouragement. "Just like boarding, push out with your feet... harder... just like that, good... long strides..." He was a wonderful teacher, patient and observing. I quickly mastered the skating part, but turning and stopping on a point were another story.  
  
"How about this," he said bemusedly, looking down at me as I lay on the ice after a failed left turn brought me to another high-speed collision with the boards. "I'll stand against the boards, and you'll skate towards me, then if you can't make the turn, at least I'll break your fall."  
  
See? Would anyone have offered to do something like that in real life? No way in hell.  
  
After about an hour of me overshooting or falling short of my turning targets, Portman began complaining about the lack of music. "I'm telling you, if I'd thought to bring a stereo, you'd have hit the mark by now. Good music is, like..."  
  
"Auditorily invigorating?" I suggested.  
  
"You took the words right out of my mouth."  
  
"If your key's a master, we can probably get into the control room and play something on the loudspeakers."  
  
"Finally, I meet a proper delinquent in this bloody city. Let's go!"  
  
Turned out his key wasn't a master, but the door only had a simple sliding lock, and I picked it no problem, promising to show Portman how another day, though I knew that day would never come.  
  
You know," I said, getting to my feet and brushing myself off for the third time in as many minutes. "Falling on your ass to the Clash is much better than just falling on your ass."  
  
"Hey, you're getting better, you just need to use your edges more. Don't stand up so straight when you turn... lean into it."  
  
So I leaned. So well, in fact, that I leaned myself into another faceful of ice. "Okay, Fult," he chuckled, hauling me to my feet. "You might have leaned a bit too far that time."  
  
Fult. He called me Fult; no one had ever called me that before. I had a nickname.  
  
We talked as we skated, mostly about music; turned out Portman loved the Clash as much as I did. "I use them like a musical measuring stick," I said. "If someone says they don't like the Clash, you can automatically disregard the rest of their opinions."  
  
We both fell silent for a moment when "I'm so bored with the USA" came on. "This is one of my favourite songs," he said. "And it's pretty appropriate right now, don't you think?" Joe Strummer would have said something caustic and subversively funny, but I only nodded. "I mean, lately, I've been getting bored with the country myself, and I live here."  
  
"Yeah, I don't know when we became such a cloying nation, but I wish we'd let up a bit."  
  
"Me too. You think this is what Vietnam was like?"  
  
"Probably, but it's different, too. People used to blame the soldiers, now they just blame Bush."  
  
"Weird, huh? Cause guys were drafted in Vietnam, right? And the soldiers in Iraq are volunteers."  
  
"I think we've gotten better at assigning blame since then. Lord knows not much else has changed."  
  
"It feels like a cycle, sometimes, doesn't it? The way everything has to repeat itself cause no one was listening the first time around."  
  
"Yeah." He was so honest and perceptive. He probably thought he was stupid, but he understood things on an intuitive level, even if the mechanics eluded him. He said things that had been said before, many times, but the way he worded them, slowly and thoughtfully and very simply, you could tell he'd come up with them himself. I'd never spoken like this to anyone, just saying what I thought and not worrying about how it sounded, but when I was with him, I couldn't help myself.  
  
"Okay, just like that, now get ready... turn, and... oof!"  
  
The "oof," if you hadn't figured it out, came from me crashing into him at full speed. We hit the ice, and I hoped the cold would keep my flushing cheeks from burning too visibly.  
  
"Fult, stand up. Show me how you hold yourself." He was kneeling beside me, and started making adjustments to my posture. When he grabbed my leg with his hands, I had to smother a gasp. This was no dream. I could feel his hands... oh god, what was I doing? "You want to keep your feet close together, like this... shit, you're tense. That's your problem, I bet, you need to loosen up. You're a natural, if you could stop thinking and trust yourself, you'd be great."  
  
He looked at me, and I dropped my eyes. "I guess that's easier said than done, huh? Well," he said, his eyes taking on a playful gleam that made my stomach do somersaults. "I bet I can help with that."  
  
As it turned out, Portman's help took the form of a particularly potent strain of the cannabis family, and after we'd hot-boxed the men's room, we were back on the ice, and wouldn't you know it? I *was* feeling far less self-conscious than before.  
  
"And the best part was," I choked out, my body trembling with repressed giggles. "Not only did he destroy his home with the runaway motorcycle, but when he blew his ass off tossing his cigarette into the toilet full of gasoline a few hours later, the paramedics who answered the call were the same ones who came when he drove through the patio door that morning, and when they heard what happened, they started laughing so hard, they dropped the stretcher, and the guy rolled down the driveway and broke his arm."  
  
"Brilliant!" Portman gasped. "Did he live?"  
  
"Yeah, that's why he only got an Honourable Mention. To win one, you have to die."  
  
"Like those college students who dared their friend to go down the library book return chute, but he went down the garbage chute instead, and got crushed to death!"  
  
"Shit! I never heard that one!" I rolled over onto my side, clutching my stomach. Finally, I stopped laughing, and rolled over to look at him. "Isn't it strange, that we have this big long tube running through our bodies, from our mouth to our ass? So when you swallow something, it's not really inside your body until it gets absorbed."  
  
He looked at me very seriously. "I never thought of that. It's like there's a tunnel going right through us."  
  
We finally had to leave near five in the morning; people would be coming in soon. We both headed back home to get some sleep, and as I watched his shadow recede as he drove towards the rising sun, I could feel that tunnel running through my body begin to widen, growing bigger and bigger until there was nothing left inside me but a gaping black hole. 


	9. The beginning of a beautiful friendship

Okay, I've got some notes this time! They're pretty long, cause I forgot to post any last chapter. Here goes:  
  
Cake-Eater: My girl! You're the only person who noticed the Bombay thing! I was rather surprised that no one else mentioned it, but I knew you wouldn't let me down, and you didn't! Sorry about the review thing, I guess I meant chapter three; I'm an idiot. But you love me anyway, right? I know it was a weird image to end the last chapter on, but I liked it. I've been reading a lot of post-modern stuff lately, so if my writing gets a little strange imagery-wise, that's the reason. If it bothers you, let me know, and I'll let up (that goes for anyone). I'd been missing my fluffy Bashie cuteness so much, I had to douse the last chapter in it. What can I say? I'm hopelessly addicted.  
  
Kelly: I know what you're talking about, believe me; all my family lives in Saskatchewan, and while I hate most things about their weather, the sunsets, stars and thunderstorms are not among them. And aurora borealis? If we got that here, I'd be in heaven... glad you liked to hear the Bashes' political rantings... more to come. The US is a great country, but they're scared and angry, and I think they're making some bad decisions. I can't help thinking: If Al Gore was here, this wouldn't be happening. I really liked that guy...  
  
Star: Ooh, I'm really glad you like the lengths of my chapters, and relieved, since this one is no shorter. I too enjoy longer updates, and Kelly agrees with you, so I'm happy as a pig in shit! I think you're crazy enough to benefit from electroshock therapy, no matter what you think of Axl Rose (kidding! That stuff is scary; have you read/seen One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest?). Got a little Nick Stahl in there for you to spot, let me know if you find it!  
  
QteCuttlfish: Okay, I have to ask: what does *g* mean? I've seen *bg* too. Forgive the computer virgin! Don't worry, I know exactly how it feels to finish a fic and want more immediately; I'm flattered my story produces this effect!  
  
RockAndRoll: "Informative and passionate," huh? That's what I go for; my life is ruled by a combination of passion and information, and I always imagined Fulton as being the same. Probably just my obsessive love, but yeah. Going to school with the Bashes would beat the shit out of heaven, if you ask me! Something else that beats heaven: Billy Elliot, I totally agree with you there. If that movie can make *me* want to be a dancer, than you know it's something special, given that being forced into ballet for one year at age six before I was kicked out for beating up another kid (she deserved it, the snotty little bitch) was one of the worst experience of my life. And a fellow Clash addict? lycanthrope loves your taste in music as much as Fulton does: how bout the Sex Pistols?  
  
Grasshopper: *drags Portman over, and attaches him to Grasshopper's ankle with a pair of handcuffs* Here you go, your own personal hetero slut puppy. Enjoy.  
  
Graceful Fall: Hey, you've been reviewing all my stories! Thank you, and I'm glad you like. Cool name.  
  
Solis, Tai and Selena: Don't know if you guys are reading or not, but if you are: UPDATE, YOU CHICKENSHIT MOTHERFUCKERS! You're killing me, you really are. But I love you guys anyway, and as soon as you update, I'll be kissing your asses all over again. Pay me no mind.  
  
SchizoAuthoress: Because I felt like using your full name this time... Aww, you got me all choked with your review of chapter seven, you naughty little thing... you're too kind. And crazy sexy cool, too, of course. Incense and peppermint... now that'll always make me think of you...  
  
Okay, now that *that's* done... I'll be starting on a new chapter of A World Apart: Wolfsbane now, so it might be awhile before the next update. Don't worry, it won't be too long, things are moving pretty fast now, and that means lots of inspiration.  
  
Portman's POV:  
  
I was lying in the living room, stretched out on the old futon that we'd had for as long as I could remember. I had an open bottle of Stella in one hand--Bud must have sprung for it, my mom never bought imported beer--and was eating an apple while I watched a Roadrunner cartoon on TV.  
  
I didn't look up as my mom came in, raising a hand in acknowledgement and mumbling a greeting instead--this was one of my favourites. The coyote had filled the space between two large, overhead cliff walls with boulders, supported by planks and tethered to a string. When the roadrunner stopped beneath the deadly device to eat the seeds lain out as bait, he yanked the string. Nothing happened, of course; the boulders remained impossibly suspended and the roadrunner finished his meal and took off with a cheeky "meep-meep," leaving a tail of dust behind him. The coyote was understandably miffed, after all, it had seemed like a fool-proof plan, and stood beneath the trap, angrily jabbing the rocks with a pole. A cascade of pebbles began to fall, and the coyote turned to the audience with a stricken expression and held up a small sign: For the love of God, why am I doing this? And then he was crushed by the falling boulders.  
  
The show cut to commercial; it took awhile for me to finish laughing, but when I did I twisted around to face my mother. "Did you say something?"  
  
"I asked if you got the mail. And my cigarettes."  
  
"On the counter by the phone. Leave the bills, I'll get to them in a day or two." My mom was a total space case, and even worse at math than I was, so I always took care of the bills and things.  
  
"You know," she called over her shoulder as she headed to the bathroom. "I got a call from your school at work today. They said you've barely been in for the past couple weeks."  
  
I waited until the sound of running water had died before responding. "Oh yeah? What'd you tell them?"  
  
"That you'd caught a bad case of the flu, but would be back on Monday. Is that it sweetie," her voice took on a teasing note. "Did you have the flu?"  
  
"Oh yeah," I said dryly, "fever, vomiting, the whole works. It's been awful."  
  
She emerged from the bathroom, rubbing her face with a hand towel, and tipped me a wink before disappearing into her bedroom to get changed. "Well, dear, I hope you feel better soon."  
  
"Your concern is touching."  
  
It had been almost two weeks since Fulton's first skating lesson, and we'd been to the rink every night since. We'd decided to take a break tonight to rest up, and I was looking forward to a little R + R. We could never grab more than a couple hours of sleep before school started, and as a result, our attendance was lagging a bit. When we did show up, we slept through every class; needless to say, our teachers were overjoyed, and I even had one of them compliment me on my improved work ethic. Nice, huh? Just goes to show that all teachers are looking for is a kid who sits still in class, and doesn't talk back. They'd be just as happy if I replaced myself with a cardboard cut-out.  
  
My mother reappeared in a short black dress and nylons. She still had a nice set of legs, but I wished she wouldn't wear so much makeup all the time. She had exchanged one face for another, trading her smudgy black eyes and dark red lips that made good tips at the bar, for shimmery, silver-blue eyelids and a wet, glossy mouth. I imagined kissing her would be like kissing a cosmetics counter, all that goop would come away on your face and hands; it was almost grotesque. So used was I to seeing her with makeup, that without it, she always looked sick and washed out. Without eyeliner, her eyes seemed smaller, squinty and pink and mole-like, and her lips looked thin and dull. All that preening, deception, really, and for what? To impress some guy? It hardly seemed worth it, especially given her rather low expectations when it came to the opposite sex.  
  
She stood in front of me and turned her back so I could do up her dress. "Are you going out tonight, sweetie?"  
  
I shook my head. "No way, I'm beat. I'm just gonna veg, and go to bed early. Where are you headed?"  
  
"Nowhere," she said, looking at me oddly. "You don't really have the flu, do you?"  
  
I supposed staying home and turning in early weren't typical Portman behaviour. Why did people always have such fixed expectations of me? "No, mom, I'm just tired."  
  
I didn't tell her that I'd blown off plans to go out with the boys that night, or that I'd been doing a lot of that lately. None of the kids I knew were anywhere near as interesting or fun to be with as Fulton (which was kinda weird, considering how quiet he was). I'd asked him several times to hang out with me, go dirtbiking or catch a movie or whatever, but he always said he was busy, citing work or some other excuse.  
  
"Uh, Dean?" My mom was in the kitchen, trying to look busy. She was twisting her fingers through her hair, a nervous habit, and a sure sign that something bad was coming. "Bud's coming for dinner and he said he'd really love it if you were there, so if you're not doing anything, maybe you could join us."  
  
Bingo. And now I was trapped; I should have told her I had plans. "Mom," I began, but she cut me off.  
  
"He's such a nice man, and he really wants to get to know you..."  
  
Yeah, I bet he does. "Christ, Mom, the guy looks like a kiddie rapist!" That really pissed her off, and I had to backpedal a bit. "Fine. I'll make dinner, swap a few words with Bud, and then that's it, okay?"  
  
Hardly my idea of a fun evening, but my mom was very grateful, so I put a few steaks on to broil, and when Bud came over, I gritted my teeth and pretended to enjoy his hearty back slaps and asinine jokes. It took longer than I expected, because Bud liked his steak well-done, if you can believe it. What kind of pansy eats well-done steak? The same kind who thinks jokes about "chinamen" are the height of humour, I imagine. Bud. What a stupid fucking name.  
  
I was wolfing down my steak as fast as I could, and was just beginning to think I'd escape the meal unscathed, when the man broke off from sweet- talking my mom, and turned to me. "So, Dean, Mary tells me you play hockey. How's that working out for you?"  
  
I saw my mom, her eyes fixed on mine, mouth frozen in a wide, skeletal smile, silently begging me to be nice. "Great, really great." My stomach twisted in nausea as I spoke. I was disgusted with my mother and with Bud, with this whole stupid charade, but mostly with myself for playing along.  
  
"Bet it helps with the ladies, eh, son?" he flashed me a leering smile and an exaggerated wink, burying his elbow in my ribs just in case I hadn't got the message the first few times.  
  
Once more, I could feel the weight of my mother's gaze, but this time, I couldn't help myself. "You have no idea. I mean, where would I be without hockey? Just some loser virgin kid, jacking off into a sweatsock, instead of the father of three illegitimate children, with a fourth on the way, I'm told. Oh, don't worry," I continued ruthlessly, ignoring their shocked expressions. "They're all different mothers. If there's one thing I've learned over the years, it's not to make the same mistake twice, am I right, Bud?" Now it was my turn to elbow him in the ribs, winking and grinning lasciviously.  
  
He smiled back nervously, obviously unsure whether I was serious or not. "Oh, my, would you look at the time!" I exclaimed, rising from my seat. "I'm afraid I'm late for another deflowering, so if you'll excuse me..."  
  
As I shut the front door behind me, I could hear my mother giggling nervously. "Kids!" she sighed, in a what-can-you-do voice. And then, "More steak, Bud?"  
  
It was raining outside.  
  
My boots were old and full of holes, and the rain kept leaking in and soaking my socks, and if you can think of anything more depressing than walking around a shitty Minneapolis neighbourhood in the rain with wet socks, I'd love to hear it.  
  
The familiarity of the situation was sickening; how many times had this happened before? Normally, the first thing I'd do was surround myself with loud, drunken people, and then get loud and drunk myself. Drink a little beer, raise a little hell, and before you know it, Bud is gone, replaced by the next guy in line, and you get to start all over again. It was the dance we did; you got lost in the music for a while, but the steps never changed. Turn, dip, turn, ignore your aching feet and above all, keep smiling, because this was a dance, and everyone knew that dances were supposed to be fun. Whee.  
  
It was early yet, and there were still plenty of people about; normal people, I mean, with real jobs, not the kind who spent all night out here, buying or selling or whatever. These people, I called them lifers, because you knew they were never going anywhere, and because their lives seemed like prison sentences handed down by the government, or the welfare office, or whoever else it was who controlled their lives. They walked quickly and purposefully, eyes downcast. They reminded me of the horses you'd see in old movies, whose masters had put blinders on their eyes so they could only see straight ahead, and would stay focussed on the task at hand. For both the blinded horses and the blinded lifers, the task at hand was transit. The lifers never made eye contact with anyone, never looked up at the sound of sirens, or cries, human or otherwise. They kept their eyes on their feet, and their minds on their destinations. I wanted to scream at them: "Where are you going? Where do you have to be that's so fucking important?"  
  
Across the street, an old, rusty truck cruised to a halt, engine idling. One of the women who were standing on the corner strutted over, hips swaying exaggeratedly. She leant over and exchanged a few words with the driver, then walked around to the passenger side, and got in, waving goodbye to her friends, or co-workers, or whatever you wanted to call them. An old woman with a bulging garbage bag slung over her shoulder was rooting through the trash can in front of a 24-hour billiard room. The pool hall was called, for some unfathomable reason, the Electric Bull, though the flickering neon sign read only: the tric Bu. Ahead of me, a movie was just letting out; a few dozen people, all of them men, all of them alone, began trickling out into the streets. As I passed the theatre, my eyes fell on a faded movie poster displayed in a cracked plastic case. A dark-haired woman with impossibly large breasts gazed sultrily at the passerby; "Gigi and the go-go girls: they're hot to trot," the poster proclaimed giddily.  
  
The rain hadn't let up; the wet pavement sparkled and refelected back tiny pinpoints of light, like millions of glistening diamonds. No diamonds here, I couldn't help thinking. More like cubic zirconia. Or better yet, broken glass. I noticed how few of the people were carrying umbrellas; they mostly just flipped up their collars, lowered their heads and ploughed on. I knew this had some kind of significance, but I couldn't think what it might be. Fulton would know, I bet. Fulton...  
  
Five minutes later, I was outside his house, knocking on the basement window. No one answered. I tried to peer through the dirty glass, but I couldn't make anything out. When his face suddenly appeared, it was like something out of a horror movie, and I jumped back, knocking over a garbage can, and sending a fat raccoon waddling away with an angry hiss.  
  
"Fuck me, Fult, you scared the hell out of me!" I cried.  
  
He pushed the window open and I squatted down in front of it. "Hi."  
  
He looked at me with that thousand-yard stare of his, dark eyes giving nothing away. "How did you--" he began.  
  
"Find this place? I was curious, so last week after practice, I doubled back and followed you. I watched you climb through this window. Do you live down here?"  
  
"My apartment's on the first floor, but I sleep down here. Do you always follow people home?"  
  
"Nope," I said cheerfully. "Only the ones I like. Wish I had a basement to myself." He said nothing. I shook the water out of my eyes and tried a laugh, which came out as nervous and rather forced. "Look, I didn't mean to bother you or anything. I was just hanging around, and I thought about you and... there's this party over on Carlson if you wanted to, I don't know..." I let my voice trail off.  
  
He shook his head doubtfully. "I don't know, man. Parties, they're..."  
  
"Not really your thing, I know. That's cool. We still on for tomorrow night?" He nodded. "Okay, guess I'll see you then. Oh, we got an afternoon game against, uh..."  
  
"The Braves, I know. I'll be there."  
  
"You will? Great! Well, I guess that's it..." Alright, Portman, this is the part where you stand up and walk away. But I didn't move.  
  
"Portman, what's wrong?"  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"What are you really doing here?"  
  
I leaned my forehead against the side of the building. Why was this so hard? "Shit, Fult, I don't know. I just... do you ever feel like all you're doing is staying alive from moment to moment, out of spite, or stubbornness, like a kind of fuck you to god, or fate, or whatever. You ever feel like that?" I didn't look at him, just kept my face pressed against the cool brick wall, my eyes closed.  
  
"Every day."  
  
He spoke quietly, but with a degree of emotion that was staggering. I opened my eyes. He was staring at me, and this time there was a smile on his face, lightweight and tentative, like it would break off and fly away if you made a loud noise, or any sudden movement. "Do you want to... come inside?"  
  
"Only if you want me to."  
  
His smile seemed strengthened by that, and he stepped back from the window to let me in. "I do."  
  
It was as cold in the basement as it was outside, and almost as wet. The concrete walls were cracked, water running down them in tiny little rivulets. More dripped from the ceiling, and a couple paint cans were strategically placed around the room to catch the worst of it.  
  
I followed Fulton into his room. The walls here were made of concrete as well, but some kind of rubbery insulation stuff seemed to be keeping out most of the leaks; there was only a single paint can in one corner, and the floor and walls were mostly dry. The rest of the basement smelled like rusty metal and dead things, but here, the pervading odours were wet clothes and marijuana. I loved that smell; I'd buy weed-scented air- fresheners if they sold them and when I told this to Fulton, he agreed heartily. It was a happy smell, one that always made me think of Johnny and the greenhouse, and good times.  
  
There was a bare mattress on the floor against one wall, and a piece of plywood resting on cinder blocks in front of a three-legged stool that must have served as a desk, and that was about it. Clothes and books and CDs were strewn about, overflowing from the two large cardboard boxes that stood at the foot of the bed. The only other item was a small, battered ghetto blaster resting on the makeshift desk, its chord running into an outlet set high into the wall. All this was secondary, however, to the things he'd painted on the around the room. Not pictures, but words. Weird words. As in foreign language weird.  
  
There was one that I recognised; on the inside on his door was a large red anarchy "A." The paint had dripped a bit, and dried in thin streams that looked like bloody tears. On the wall beside the desk, the words "Nemo me impune lacessit" had been scrawled in black paint, and the ceiling above the bed held the following: "Nolite te illigitimi carborundorum."  
  
I could tell Fulton was nervous to have me in here, and I wanted to put him at ease, so I flopped down on the bed, fixing a look of only mild curiosity on my face. "Not much of a painter, are you?"  
  
It was exactly the right thing to say. He grinned broadly, and shook his head ruefully. "Believe me, I tried, but I'm pretty hopeless."  
  
"Oh well, not everyone can be born with my talent."  
  
"Yeah? You paint or something?"  
  
"Just tagging and graffiti, mostly. You know, for fun. It's not my fault I'm so damn good."  
  
He raised an eyebrow. "So you're gonna be the next Basquiat?" he asked teasingly.  
  
"Hell yeah! I'm a young, poor, angry white boy. I'm telling you, man, that shit sells. And how about you, huh? What language is that, anyway?"  
  
He mumbled something I could hear. "What?"  
  
"It's Latin."  
  
"Yeah, right. Really?" He shrugged.  
  
"Hmm..."  
  
"What is it?" he asked defensively.  
  
"Nothing, that's just... cool. I've never known someone who speaks Latin before. How'd you learn it? I thought they only taught it in prep schools and Europe and stuff."  
  
"Yeah, I picked it up from books."  
  
Well, that was something I hadn't expected. Not like I knew, or anything, but that didn't sound like the sort of thing anyone could do, and certainly not the sort of thing that anyone *would* do. I imagined Fulton sitting on his bed, or at his sorry-ass desk, poring over some thick, dusty Latin book. Weird. But cool. Definitely cool. Guess he had more of a brain that I gave him credit for.  
  
"You know," I said thoughtfully, staring up at the ceiling so I wouldn't have to meet his eyes. "I'm not going to keep accepting all the excuses you have for not hanging out with me. Now that I know where you live, I'll be dropping by more often, whether you like it or not. So you better get used to me."  
  
His eyes were twinkling as he smiled at me. He looked really nice when he smiled; I wished he'd do it more often. "Is that so?"  
  
"You better believe it. Hey, I got an idea! Do you have any more spray- paint?"  
  
Fulton went out into the basement, and came back with an armload of cans, which he dumped on the bed. "Perfect."  
  
Two hours and three cans of spray paint later, Fulton's room was looking good. I'd shown him the basics of graffiti art, how to adjust the spray, how to use lots of colours without them blending together, and while he was no natural, he was decent enough. Together we painted band names and logos on his walls, and I did some drawings, at Fulton's request: a pot leaf, a stylized elephant, an guy impaled with a bunch of steak knives, and a big eye with the words "we never sleep" written below it. Fulton had painted more messages, or quotes, or whatever they were, this time in stylish, colourful lettering: "Klaatu Barada Nikto" (not more Latin, it was from one of the Evil Dead movies, the third one, I think), "stoned immaculate," (from a Jim Morrison poem) and my favourite: "there is no gravity, the Earth just sucks."  
  
Once we ran out of wall space, we moved outside, and practiced tagging on the brick wall of his building. I helped Fult come up with a name and design his tag: stick man, because he was always carrying that hockey stick of his. Plus, there was the irony of a guy his size going by "stick man." I had been "chaos" for years, and my tags were very well-known around my old neighbourhood. I'd been meaning to get out and tag some stuff around here. It had stopped raining by then, the streets had emptied now that night had fallen, and we roamed around, looking for fresh targets. A city bus was our first victim, then the school, of course (it was classic; if you asked me, anyone who has never spray-painted their school is missing out on a fundamental right of passage for all youth) and the MLA office of one Gary Holdcroft. That last one had been Fulton's idea.  
  
"Fucking Republicans," he'd sneered. "And could the guy be any more corrupt? He just signed over that park behind the hockey rink; they're turning into a mini-mall this spring. Wonder how much he made on *that* deal?" And so he'd painted "the idiots have taken over" on the large, plate- glass window. Our crowning achievement, however, had to be the police car. Fulton stood watch while I painted a large roast pig lying on a platter with an apple in his mouth, and a cop's hat on his head, on the side of a cruiser parked outside the "Ye Olde Doughnut Shoppe." Beneath it I wrote the words: "Eat shit, piggy."  
  
After that we retired to the skate park to smoke weed and set off some firecrackers I had saved from Halloween; it wouldn't do to get caught after that last stunt. Cops got mean when they were humiliated. "Serves them right for eating doughnuts," I said scornfully. "I mean, how clichéd is that? And in a place called "Ye Olde Doughnut Shoppe? What the fuck is a "shoppe?""  
  
I couldn't remember the last time I'd had so much fun with someone who wasn't Johnny. It was as if we'd bypassed all the steps you were supposed to take when getting to know a person, and went right to the spot where you knew what they were thinking without them telling you. Two weeks of skating, and one night of painting, and I felt like I'd known him forever, even if there were still plenty of things I didn't understand. There were dozens of questions I wanted to ask him, but I sensed that might frighten him off, so I kept my mouth shut.  
  
We were lying on our backs beside the bowl. The smell of charred grass and gunpowder making my nose itch, but I didn't care. Tonight had been like something out of a movie; a Gus Van Sant film, perhaps, or maybe Greg Araki, but with undercurrents of Tim Burton: Fulton reminded me of Edward Scissorhands.  
  
"Hey, Fult?"  
  
"Mm-hm?"  
  
"Those Latin words in your room, what do they mean?"  
  
"One means: "don't let the bastards grind you down" or something to that effect, and the other means: "no one attacks me with impunity.""  
  
"Impunity?"  
  
"Without retribution."  
  
"Wow. Good advice."  
  
"You think so?"  
  
"Oh yeah, especially the first one. Words to live by. It should be our motto, you know, like on those old family crests people hang in their dens. Think you can teach it to me?"  
  
"You want to learn Latin? It'd take awhile."  
  
"Okay, then not the whole language, just those words."  
  
"Well, since you've taught me to skate and paint, I figure it's the least I can do."  
  
"Really? When can we start?"  
  
He paused for a moment, then grinned. "What are you doing tomorrow?"  
  
And the rest, as they say, is history. Or, as they say in Latin: antiquitas. 


	10. Hell hath no fury like a gym teacher sco...

*When I started writing this chapter, I planned for it to be a series of four vignettes. I did two, and even that was a stretch. I'll try again for the next chapter, but no promises. Before you start, I gotta warn you that I know nothing about soccer. Zip. Never watched it, never played it, never liked it. Nothing but hellish PE memories. Anyway, that means forgive my lack of terminology and stuff; I don't think the correct term is "I shot the ball into the net," but I'm a Canadian hockey nut, and hockey is all I know. And baseball, but I'm saving that for another story.  
  
For those of you who were wondering if I am ever going to give the non-Bash Ducks some screen time, I assure you that it's coming. A hockey showdown is on the horizon, and I got plans to cover a lot of Ducks when I get to that part, so hold on!  
  
Notes! anne918: Glad you enjoy! Keep up the good work on your own stories!  
  
Star: "When I met you, I was but the learner, now I am the master." Star Wars quotes aside, see how the tables have turned: I'll email you soon, I promise! Expect it after Monday, since I've got a midterm, but I have Lemche, Stahl AND Katherine Isabelle news to document!  
  
RockAndRoll: Yes, thank you! I've long been thinking we're rather twin- like, or at least have a lot in common. I'm a Jim Morrison obsessive (posters, poems, biographies and a box set of CD's)! And I find your cowardly sensibilities perfectly endearing...  
  
QteCuttlfish: Thanks for the terminology, I need all the help I can get! By the way, feel free to ignore this, but I've always wondered what on earth your name refers to.  
  
Cake-Eater: Dearest good luck charm! If I was to amass all your reviews, I could probably compile a War and Peace-like epic! Hey, it's called a "firing barrel?" I always thought they were saying "fire in a barrel" really quickly... Yeah, I've totally shared the run-away graffiti artist dream, ever seen Basquiat? Amazing. I keep seeing ads for Holes, and I think of you. I've already picked up my copy, and I assume you've done the same (hello, understatement). Tim Burton is beyond fabulous, and Johnny Depp is my non-Elden acting god. Can you believe he's never even been nominated for an Oscar? Well, between Pirates of the Carribean and Once Upon a Time In Mexico, if there was ever a year he might pull it off, this is it. Fingers crossed!  
  
Grasshopper: I was so happy to get your review for chapter seven; that line you liked was one of my very favourites from all my fics, so it felt good to know that someone else felt the same. Thank you!  
  
Kelly: I'm sorry to say that while I've heard dim mention of "Fraggle Rock" (was it a Muppet cartoon, or something?), I'm pretty sure it never aired up here. I agree that makeup is one of mankind's sillier inventions, especially all the emphasis placed upon it by the media and consumers and whatnot. Ug. Ha, you think that was Portman cooking? Wait till you see what I've got planned; like in my BB series, Portman had serious gifts in the culinary arts, spurned on by his relationship with Johnny, of course! I'm glad you like my descriptions; they're always some of the most enjoyable passages to write. As for "There is no gravity, the Earth just sucks" line, I've been writing it on walls and desks and t-shirts since I was nine, but I have no idea where it came from. I'm beginning to think I might have made it up, but it seems awfully young. If anyone has seen it before, let me know, okay? I'd like to credit the guy. By the way, what the hell are cookies?  
  
Schizzie the Artist: Since seeing the lovely pictures you sent me, that's going to join your list of names, okay? Or maybe you'd prefer Love Muffin...  
  
Fulton's POV:  
  
I was in a bad mood.  
  
I was leaning against one of the wimpy little trees that separated the school's back parking lot from the gravel field behind it, and would you believe it? The damn thing started bending over under my weight. It was freezing outside; my arms were crossed tightly across my chest to keep myself from shivering, and my jaw was clenched so my teeth wouldn't chatter, but all the hairs on my arms and legs were standing up, the flesh raised into tiny little goosebumps. All the other kids on the sidelines were hopping up and down, rubbing their arms to keep warm, but I refused. I didn't want to give Morrison the satisfaction. As if being forced to play soccer and other retarded reindeer games with a bunch of teenaged hormonal piss-bags wasn't bad enough, now I was supposed to do it in sub-zero temperatures, likely contracting hypothermia in the bargain, or at least a raging case of frostbite. And don't even get me started on the shit they made me wear.  
  
Morrison blew his whistle. "Alright, switch it up! Paulson, Germaine, Goldberg, O'Donnell, Mackey, Karp, Banks! You guys are taking over blue team, and the rest of you are red. Let's move it!"  
  
The kids who had been playing came in, and the others started to jog out onto the field. Three of four girls who'd just come off were huddled together on my left, whispering loudly to each other.  
  
"I heard it was two years for assault. He stabbed a teacher with a pair of scissors."  
  
"Are you serious? And they let him come back?" I pretended not to notice while they stared at me, clucking excitedly amongst themselves. Did they really think I couldn't hear them?  
  
"I don't think they had a choice, since he was only twelve."  
  
"What a psycho! Did you hear he beat up Tracy McGillis for no reason at all? Just jumped him when he was coming home from a hockey game."  
  
"I'm not surprised. And have you seen how out of it he always is? I bet he's on drugs right now."  
  
God, I only wished that were true. Morrison suddenly appeared in front of me, his trademark scowl on his face. "You deaf as well as dumb, Reed? I said get out there!"  
  
I bared my teeth, and he backed off a couple of steps. I was making my way onto the field when he called my name, and as I turned around, he tossed me a bright red jersey with no sleeves.  
  
"Don't forget your tunic, Reed."  
  
"You can take your tunic and--"  
  
But I never got to tell him what he could do with his tunic, because at that moment, Guy grabbed my arm and hauled me out onto the field.  
  
"What?" I demanded, angry that he'd interrupted my tirade.  
  
"You mouth off to Morrison again, and he'll get you suspended. Remember what he said after you hit him with that Frisbee?"  
  
I chuckled. "Yeah. Man, that fun."  
  
"I'm sure it was. But you do want to graduate, don't you? Just put on your tunic, and try not to kill anyone."  
  
I snorted derisively. "Forget it, I'm not putting that thing on. It's bad enough having to wear shorts."  
  
"Come on, Fulton, what if I... wait! You know that presentation on STD's we have to do for sex-ed? You don't have a partner, right? You can work with me and Charlie. We'll do all the research, and talking and stuff; all you have to do is work the slide projector."  
  
He was sharp. No way in hell I'd be caught dead giving a report on the dangers of syphilis and gonorrhea. I'd planned on skipping that day, but Ms. Nelson would probably try to track me down. She saw me as a high risk for AIDS, drug dependency, and unplanned pregnancies. I couldn't believe this kid, going out of his way to keep me, of all people, out of trouble. His idealism bordered on the foolhardy. He'd probably be one of those saps who goes into politics actually hoping to make a difference in the world.  
  
I should have laughed in his face. Instead, I picked up the jersey, and pulled it over my head. It was way too small, stretching tight across my chest and ending well above my belly button. I looked at Guy, who was clearly trying to keep a straight face.  
  
"You laugh, you die."  
  
"Got it," he grinned, and ran to join his team at the other end of the field.  
  
I was offered the position of goalie, which I accepted gratefully; running around after Banks and his hotshot pals did not appeal to me. Minneapolis was a hockey town; the only kids who played for soccer teams were the rich little pricks with stay-at-home moms who could ferry them to and from games- -the field was on the other end of town--in the family Volvo. Volvo-driving soccer moms, like in that Everclear song.  
  
"You know I used to be a bad girl, I got busy in the bathroom at my high school prom. You know I used to be a dancer at the local strip club, but now I know my right wing from my wrong."  
  
I was humming the opening bars to myself, when I spotted Portman waving at me from the cover of the scraggly trees. I waved back, and was about to head over, when Banks finally broke up the game of keep-away that Connie Moreau and Jesse Hall had been playing, and came charging up the field towards me.  
  
If he played soccer like he did hockey, from the way he was moving, he'd probably deke left and go high right, so when he closed in like he was about to make a shot, I ignored my instincts and moved right. That set me up perfectly to catch the kick he made a few moments later; anyone else, and it would have gone way overhead, but I just reached up and plucked the ball from the air. I threw it to Connie--too hard, it hit her in the stomach and she doubled over, but Jesse got the rebound and started back upfield, Connie a little behind the others, since I'd knocked the wind out of her.  
  
"Take that, you preppy little shit," I muttered, though in Banks' defense, he seemed neither shocked nor angry to have been robbed of a goal by Fulton Reed, and instead got right back into it, not even pausing to laugh at me with his friends.  
  
When I saw Morrison's attention was focused on the action around the other goal, I jogged over to Portman. He was grinning wickedly.  
  
"Nice save, Reed."  
  
"Shut up," I muttered, knowing full well what was coming next.  
  
"No, really, and you know, that jersey looks great on you, I really think red is your colour."  
  
"Blow me."  
  
He ignored me, and pointed at my bare legs with delight. "I don't think those things have ever seen the light of day before. You're as white as fuckin' Wonder Bread, man."  
  
"So much for my dream of dancing in a J-Lo video. Tell me you're here to rescue me."  
  
"Yup. I'm supposed to be in Math, but I just couldn't handle looking at another quadratic equation. Told Jeffries I had to take a piss, and never came back."  
  
"That won't work with Morrison. The guy's a fucking Nazi."  
  
"Show me a gym teacher who isn't. Don't worry, I got a plan. I was gonna pull the fire alarm, then I remembered you had gym this period. I bet he'd just have you play right through the drill. I'll distract him, and I'll meet you in the locker room after, okay?"  
  
"Yeah, but what are you going to--"  
  
But Portman was already off. Screaming like a banshee, he tore across the field, stole the ball from Sean Paulson, and, zigzagging past the rest of the defense, shot it right past the befuddled goalie. Everyone, including Morrsion and myself, stood slack-jawed while Portman threw his off his leather jacket, then his shirt, and started to dance around, flashing his muscles with gleeful abandon. He shimmied up one of the goalposts and out onto the crossbar, still whooping like a madman. Then he flipped over backwards so he was hanging by his arms, and started swinging back and forth, like a gymnast doing a bar routine.  
  
I finally broke from my Portman-stupor (he was simply amazing), and struggled out of the hateful red jersey. I tossed it to the ground in disgust, unable to resist trodding it into the mud before I snuck off the field toward the locker rooms. I could hear Morrison yelling, trying to regain control of his students, who were all gathered around the goal, thoroughly enthralled by Portman's craziness. They weren't alone.  
  
A little while later, I was dressed, and the two of us were making our way towards one of the school's side exits, so we wouldn't have to go by the field or the front office. I was still macking on Portman's "distraction."  
  
"Seriously, dude, that was beautiful."  
  
Portman put his hand over his heart and batted his eyelashes. "I'm touched. You know I only did it for you, right, sugar?"  
  
"Hang on a sec, man, I gotta pee."  
  
I ducked into the bathroom while Portman waited outside, which turned out to be a mistake, because when I emerged, he was talking to Ms. Wong, who looked decidedly suspicious.  
  
"You're coming with me until I find out what class you're supposed to be in, Mr. Portman."  
  
"Look, lady, I already told you--"  
  
"ENOUGH."  
  
"It's alright, he's with me." Ms. Wong spun around, and her eyes widened in that old, familiar way when she saw me.  
  
"It's a family emergency. I'm sure you understand." I reached past her to take Portman's arm, and she squeaked and leapt backwards, then scurried away down the hall.  
  
"What's the deal?" Portman asked when we were finally outside. "How come she's scared of you, but not me?"  
  
I laughed. He actually seemed insulted by the fact that it didn't make Ms. Wong cringe to look at him. He shot me a glare, and continued. "I mean, I know you've got that brooding giant thing going on, but what am I, chopped liver?"  
  
"She was my homeroom teacher last year; she probably saw my file."  
  
"What file?" he asked sullenly, kicking a pine cone.  
  
"You know, my school file. They've got records of all my suspensions and stuff."  
  
Oops. Wrong thing to say. Portman rounded on me. "*I've* been suspended! TONS of times!" When I said nothing, only smiled at him, he went back to kicking pine cones. "Been suspended more times than you, I bet," he muttered.  
  
"I heard that."  
  
"So? It's true." He jabbed me in the arm with his finger. "Come on, man, quit dicking me around!"  
  
"Okay, okay. It's just that I leave quite a paper trail, you know, with juvie and stuff."  
  
"You been in lockdown?" he asked, clearly impressed. "When? How come? For how long?"  
  
"Eight months when I was twelve for possession of stolen property and assault."  
  
Portman gave a low whistle. "Damn, that's a long time for a first offense. You weren't even a teenager!"  
  
I nodded. "Yeah, but I got some months added on for bad behaviour."  
  
Portman's eyes were twinkling. He punched me in the shoulder. "Dude, I can't believe you never told me that! Well, actually, I can, but anyway, I want details, so 'fess up, you secretive little imp." Now he was poking me in the ribs. I was ticklish there, and had to pull away fast so I wouldn't laugh.  
  
"Okay, but not now. It's kind of a long story, and I know you'll have a million questions. Later, alright?" He looked incredulous. "I promise."  
  
"Fine, but then at least tell me if that's the only secret you got tucked away in your file, cause I think it'd take more than that to freak Ms. Wong out like that. You've done the psych thing, haven't you?"  
  
"Yeah." I looked at him curiously. "How'd you know?"  
  
He laughed. "Come on, man, you're so weird, if you ever ended up in the system, you'd have all those Nazi fucks pushing the panic button as soon as they met you. I'm just surprised they let you go."  
  
"They didn't let me go, exactly."  
  
He flashed me another dazzlingly toothy smile. "I figured."  
  
He's your friend, and that's all, I reminded myself firmly.  
  
All this talk about me was making me nervous. "How about you?"  
  
"What, you mean my file? Nothing serious, but I been arrested a few times. For regular shit, drugs, fighting, vandalism, you know. Never been to juvie, though. Got the charge overturned the first time, got probation for the second and community service for that last one. Had to pull some kiddie rehab once, though. That place really blew."  
  
"Tell me about it. I fucking hate shrinks."  
  
"What do you call a hundred shrinks chained together at the bottom of the sea?"  
  
"A good start. And isn't that supposed to be with lawyers?"  
  
"Yeah. I hate them, too."  
  
"Me too."  
  
"Hey, did you hear they started replacing lab rats with lawyers? You know why? Cause the scientists get less attached to the lawyers, and cause--"  
  
"--there are some things even rats won't do," I finished.  
  
"Damn, Fult! Stop *doing* that!" he cried. "I don't even know where you hear these jokes," he muttered. "It's not like you have any other friends."  
  
"I prefer my own company to those kids you used to hand around with, thank you," I said primly.  
  
He grinned, and swung his arm over my shoulder. "Yeah. Me too."  
  
***  
  
I was in a bad mood. I was also in a rather substantial amount of pain.  
  
I was lying on my front on my mattress, listening to water drops plip-plop into the paint can beside the door. I'd have to empty it soon, or it would overflow. But not now. Now all I could do was lie here and dream of a time when getting up to empty the paint can wouldn't have been a torturous activity. It felt like I'd been lying here for hours, which probably meant that about fifteen minutes had elapsed since my dad had gone ballistic on me, and for no logical reason either, or at least none that I could fathom.  
  
After ditching school, Portman and I ended up taking mushrooms and sneaking into the aquarium to trip out on all the beautiful fish and marine life. Portman asked me questions the whole time, and for some reason, I didn't feel the need to hide my knowledge from him, and he was delighted by all the information I could provide about turtles and sharks and poisonous fish. I'd been going nuts about marine biology lately, reading everything the library carried on the subject. Ever seen some of the crazy shit that lives in the oceans? Lungfish and giant squid and cookie-cutter sharks... trippy.  
  
Anyway, after I came home that night, my dad was watching a Vikings game with a couple of his drinking buddies, and my mom was passed out in the bathtub. He told me to fry up some eggs for him and his friends. After they were through, I was in the kitchen, washing the dishes, when he stormed in, dragged me into the bedroom, and proceeded to beat the shit out of me.  
  
He didn't talk much about what I'd done wrong, except to cuss me out a lot and say that the eggs were too greasy, but the last time I cooked he nearly knocked half my teeth out for them not being greasy enough, so I figured he was just pissed. I mean, even if I did mess up the eggs a bit, no way did it warrant that big of a punishment; he'd used the buckle end of his belt and everything.  
  
Things between my father and I had really been escalating lately. This past year or so, he'd begun to hit more and more often, but the real problem was how erratic he was becoming. Like today, with the eggs. When I was younger, he'd have cuffed me a bit for it, and that'd be it, but now, it was hard to divine how he'd react in any situation, and that was dangerous. It was always one of my best defences that I could predict with good accuracy the amount of pain he'd dispense for each infraction, so I could avoid landmines and minimise damage. Lately, however, it seemed that all I could count on was that spending any degree of time in the same vicinity as the man practically guaranteed me an ass-kicking.  
  
The door to my room opened, and I looked up quickly. It was my mother. So far, the basement still provided me with a sanctuary from my father, but I wondered how long that would last.  
  
My mom had a glass of water in one hand. She walked over on unsteady legs, and half-fell, half-lowered herself onto the stool beside my desk. She leant over, and handed me the water, and a couple of pills, which I swallowed eagerly.  
  
"How did you fare, my little Lancelot?" she asked in that sad, whispery voice of hers.  
  
"I ran into Morgan Le Fey up there. Where're Gawain and Galahad when you need them, huh?"  
  
She giggled, but the noise deteriorated into something like a sob. She sat down beside me on the mattress, brushing the hair from my sweaty face and smiling crookedly. "Where indeed? I've often wondered that same thing myself."  
  
Her voice dropped an octave, and I saw her hands were trembling none-too- slightly. "What happened?"  
  
What happened? My mother never asked me that. She was so far removed from reality, that sometimes I wondered about her ability to connect cause and effect. She never questioned or discussed the bad things that happened in life, never tried to do anything to prevent them. I don't think she felt she had the power. Instead she took her pills, and rode out the storm with a smile. This must have been one of her rare periods of straight time; it explained the trembling, too.  
  
"Greasy eggs," I muttered.  
  
"Are you all right?"  
  
I'll be a hell of a lot better once those pills take hold. "I'm fine."  
  
"You don't look fine, Fulton. You're pale and sweaty, and you look sick. Is there anything I can do?"  
  
I considered. "I could use a little food."  
  
She frowned. "Oh, dear, that'll be difficult for a while. Do you think you can wait a few hours until your father's gone to bed?" I nodded. "Good boy. Just hang on till then, and I'll make you some spaghetti."  
  
She bent to adjust the old grey Army blanket I'd draped over myself, pulling it back from my shoulders in the process. "Oh, my," she said softly.  
  
"I'm fine," I repeated, pulling the blanket back overtop of me.  
  
The door opened again, and my stomach dropped into my feet. But it wasn't my father. It was a friend of his, Lenny Tawler. Lenny was in his late thirties, pale and balding, with long, bony fingers and bleary red eyes that swam behind thick glasses.  
  
"Lila?" he asked tentatively, stepping inside. "Clayton wants to see you upstairs."  
  
My mom looked at me. "He's bleeding, Lenny."  
  
"He is? Well, don't worry, I'll take care of that."  
  
She got up and put her hand on Lenny's shoulder, staring at him until he looked away uneasily. "Thank you, Lenny. You've always been good to me. And my boy."  
  
When she left, Lenny relaxed visibly, and took a seat on the stool. "How's it goin', kid?"  
  
"Peachy."  
  
He looked uncomfortable. "Yeah, that was kinda crazy, wasn't it? Me and Pete were sitting with your dad, and then he just stands up and... what'd you do to piss him off so much, anyway?"  
  
"Who knows?"  
  
He sighed. "Yeah. How bad is it?"  
  
"Could be worse, but I'll need stitches."  
  
"Well, that's what I'm here for. Where's the kit?"  
  
"In the box. The other one." I pointed, and he dug around, finally coming up with an old metal box with a dented lid; the white paint had flaked off in places, but the red cross was still clearly visible.  
  
Lenny was a doctor, or had been until he lost his licence. He just couldn't lay off the booze; he got busted for practicing while drunk. He was drunk now, for that matter, but I didn't mind; when he was sober, his hands trembled constantly, and I'd rather have a drunk guy stitching me up than a sober one with the shakes.  
  
He'd been a friend of my father's since I was a little kid, and since then, he'd also taken on the role of my personal physician. My dad had never hurt me bad enough to require hospitalisation, thank god, but there had been plenty of stitches over the years, as well as some other stuff, and if it wasn't something I could take care of myself, then Lenny was the man. I was lucky he'd been over tonight, or I might have had to wait until tomorrow.  
  
I used to see him a lot when I was younger, but now, it was a rare injury that I couldn't take care of myself. I remembered the first time my dad beat me unconscious. He must have got freaked and called Lenny, because when I came to, I was on the couch, and Lenny and my mom were looking down on me while my father sat in his chair, watching TV.  
  
Lenny put on a pair of latex gloves, and started to string up a needle. "You don't look so hot, kid. Did Clayton really do a number on your back?"  
  
I shrugged. "I'm fine."  
  
"I bet you are. But why don't you have a toke before we get started?"  
  
It was a good idea. It drove away the worst of the pain that the pills had left behind, and I didn't feel so woozy and sweaty anymore.  
  
When I was sufficiently stoned, Lenny helped me take off my shirt. It was weird, but I'd really come to trust him over the years, more than any other adult, probably, except my mom. That wasn't saying much, I know, but I wouldn't have let anyone else help me like that. Probably because I'd known him for so long. I was lucky he'd never tried to molest me when I was younger; he seemed like the type of guy who might go for that. Wordlessly, he began cleaning my cuts, and stitching up the worst of them. All in all, it took less than twenty stitches. Lenny was good; I hardly felt a thing.  
  
I knew Lenny had a thing for my mother; it had been going on since I'd known him, and I wondered idly if he'd ever made a move on her. Probably not; he was a sad, ineffectual little man, and I'm sure he was scared to death of my father finding out. My mother? It was hard to say where her heart lay. I knew my dad really loved my mom, and sometimes I could swear she loved him too, but other days, he was just another storm to wait out. I couldn't really imagine her having an affair with Lenny, but that didn't mean anything. She did a lot of things I couldn't imagine.  
  
Lenny finished up, and returned the kit to its cardboard box. "You should take it easy for a day or two so you don't pop the stitches, but I imagine you'll feel like doing that anyway. Can I get you some pain killers?"  
  
"Nah, mom's loaded."  
  
"Oh, I almost forgot. I swiped this for you." He reached into his pocket and tossed me a Snickers bar. I gobbled it up instantly. Squashed nougat had never tasted so good. I burped loudly, having eaten far too fast. "Thanks."  
  
Lenny was looking at me bemusedly. "My pleasure. You know, you're a good kid, Fulton."  
  
He rubbed my hair in a paternal way. It was enough to make me want to vomit. Don't get me wrong, I liked Lenny well enough, but come on, how after-school special could you get? "Yeah, right. Don't you have to get back to poisoning your liver, or something?"  
  
He smiled ruefully. "I suppose so. I'll see you next time, Fulton."  
  
"I can't wait." 


	11. And then my heart stopped: CioCio San fa...

*So, looks like I'm not dead, after all. Oh, well, I'll live. ^__^ (Look! My first one!) Sorry about the long delay, you guys; October is such a busy month for me. Between midterms and film festivals and especially hockey season, I've had less than no time to write. If this isn't the Canucks year, then it's coming soon. We picked up a new player, #21, Magnus Arvedson. We've already got #44, Todd Bertuzzi. Now, if that isn't a good luck charm, I don't know what is! On a sadder note, Quimby, my longest- running, most loyal reviewer ever, is gone from the fanfiction universe, at least for now. This never fails to get me down when I think about it, so if there's anyone out there who has been reading this story, but has yet to review, please drop me a line. It would cheer me up immeasurably to see that my fics are reaching a larger audience then they had when I began this crazy game back in January. Anyway, enough of that, here are some notes before we begin:  
  
WeBuiltThisCityOnRockAndRoll: Because I can't remember the last time I typed your name out in full... I wholeheartedly agree that preppy bitches lick monkey testicles in the most abhorrent fashion, and I would love to see them try to blow your non-existent dick. I might even pay money for it. You're right, something will have to happen on the Clayton front, but you must wait to find out what it is... mwah ha ha. What you don't have to wait for any more is the hockey showdown; it's coming next chapter. A fellow Stephen King fan, eh? I'm a total hardcore; I've been his since I was nine, and I first read Skeleton Crew. I own every last one of his books, and love them all. The ending to Pet Sematary kicks ASS, baby! And Swing Kids? You're kidding, right? I bawl my fucking eyes out every time Arvid kills himself, but the ending is even worse (Swing hail, Peter! Swing hail!). I fell in love with that movie when I was ten, and haven't been able to extricate myself since, even though it's technically a pretty bad movie. I'm like that. Once I fall in love, it's just about impossible for me to fall out of love. Take Fulton. Fell for him at age eleven, fast forward eight or nine years, and here I am, in love all over again. You'll get that, I guess. What do you think all us obsessives will be like when we're fifty?  
  
QteCuttlfish: Glad you're enjoying this universe of mine; I am too. A little too much, probably, but that's beside the point. I loved your cuttlefish story; those guys are the coolest, aren't they? Colour-changing fish... trippy.  
  
Anne: Guy's just such a little cutie, isn't he? Wanting to keep Fulton out of trouble. Good luck, is all I can say.  
  
Grasshopper: Fulton as Scarlett O'Hara, hm? Very nice... I see him in a high-necked red velvet dress, myself, with tall leather boots and maybe a hint of eyeliner... Is that wrong? And pet names are the epitome of disgustingly cute, aren't they? I just can't seem to stay away from them, when it comes to my Bashes.  
  
Star: It seemed cold to leave you out just because you didn't stroke my ego with a review, so I won't. But now I can't think of anything to write, so we're back where we started. Fuck. My apologies. More Shoebox!  
  
Schizzum jizzum: Man, your review for last chapter was the coolest thing ever, m'dear! I have to admit, I thought the Portman stripping was a nice touch. Don't worry, I'll leave the pedophilia to you and Q... What do you say? Should I write the Terminator into the story? Maybe he could act as a catalyst, or something... *grins* Gym teachers as the children of those who escaped the Nuremberg trials... I like it. Explains a lot, too, so many of them are raging right-wing bigots. And yes, I was paying homage to Freak the Mighty with Fult's basement paradise. Got to get up pretty early in the morning to pull one over on my Schizzoid, isn't that right? I live in constant fear of your violent presence, have I ever told you that?  
  
Portman's POV:  
  
Fulton slept like the dead. No joke; he told me once that when he was six, he slept through a fire that nearly burned down his entire apartment complex. He'd had to be lifted out his fourth-storey window by a "smiling, curly-haired firefighter." That was the first time I ever got jealous, when I saw the way his eyes glowed when he spoke of his childhood hero (he'd wanted to become a firefighter for years after that), and the feeling wasn't alleviated when he told me I reminded him of the guy. It felt like someone had knocked the wind out of me. I wanted nothing more than to find this man-whore, wherever he was, with his dopey grin and Brillo-pad hairdo, and feed him his spleen.  
  
Now, in a normal relationship, that was exactly the kind of thing that would cause a rift between two lovers. I'd have stewed over it for weeks, finally releasing all my pent-up rage and insecurity on my unfortunate better half. But Fulton has always had this knack for knowing exactly what I was feeling, sometimes before I even knew it myself. I was sitting there, all in a huff over this firefighter guy, and he just smiled at me, wrapped his arm tighter around my shoulders, and said that I was his hero now.  
  
How cute is that? But we're not quite there yet, are we? We're still in junior year, early December, I believe, and at the tail end of the "just friends" phase of our relationship. I had dropped by Fulton's place that morning, and when he didn't respond to my calls, I let myself in. Now I was sitting on the stool beside his bed, waiting for him to wake up. He lay on his stomach, his face buried in his pillow, his hair splayed out across it, framing his head with a halo of sorts.  
  
Finally, I'd had enough of waiting. I leant over, until my lips brushed his hair. "Mornin', sunshine," I sang out cheerfully.  
  
He didn't open his eyes. "Ss'not morning. Fuk-off," he murmured.  
  
"It is too, morning, you little shit. Now get your ass up. It's a beautiful day out there." I shook his shoulder. He groaned, and rolled over onto his side.  
  
"Nice try, genius. Only I can hear the rain from here."  
  
Damn. So I kept poking and teasing him until he finally got up, threatening to mould me into Play-Doh pasta.  
  
"What's up with you, anyway?" he muttered, as we climbed the stairs to his apartment. "Is something wrong?"  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"I mean it's barely nine o'clock."  
  
"So?"  
  
"So... thy earliness doth me assure, thou art uproused by some distemperature. Or if not so, then here I hit it right: our Romeo hath not been in bed tonight."  
  
My eyes widened at that; though I guess I shouldn't have expected anything else. Slipping anything past Fulton, even a sleep-deprived Fulton, was the approximate equivalent of duping a crack team of top KGB agents or something. That, and the fact that I was still wearing yesterday's clothes probably tipped him off.  
  
"Shakespeare? Are you throwing Shakespeare at me?"  
  
"Of course not. That was Dean Koontz."  
  
"Who?"  
  
"Forget it."  
  
In the kitchen, I sat down on one of the metal tubular chairs at the small, Formica-topped table. Fulton started hunting through the cupboards for something to eat, eventually procuring a single apple, which he gave to me-- "I'm not the one with a hockey game in an hour and a half," he said--and a half-eaten box of Sugar Crisp. There was no milk, so we ate handfuls of the sticky-sweet puffed wheat straight from the box. After that, he took the first of the shower runs; I had been using his all week, since ours was busted.  
  
While I was waiting for Fulton, I went into the living room, which always looked like the morning after a frat party. Crumpled beer cans covered most of the carpet, and cigarette butts spilled out of the overflowing ashtrays that had been placed around the room. An enormous, battle-scarred leather easy chair with a sunken bottom bled stuffing from several gaping wounds. It was positioned directly in front of the TV, and it didn't take a genius to see that it belonged to Fult's dad. I'd never seen the man, but given the size of the indentation he left in his recliner, I was willing to bet he was the genetic source of Fulton's enormity.  
  
I had just noticed the TV tray that stood beside the easy chair, when Fulton came in. He was fresh-faced from his shower, his hair dripping water down his soft, rounded cheeks and onto the shoulders on his Judas Priest t- shirt. Other than that, he wore only boxers, navy blue, and the pallor of his white legs was emphasised by the black hairs that sprouted from them. I must have been staring, because he shuffled his bare feet uncomfortably.  
  
"What is it?"  
  
'I don't know,' I thought to myself. 'But it's something.' Of course, all that came out was, "Just spacing." I gestured to the TV tray. "Your dad really likes to party, huh? I thought that was more your mom's thing."  
  
I was pretty sure that Fulton was trying to keep me from running into his father whenever I was over at his place; either that, or he avoided him whenever he could. Probably that last one. I'd met his mom a few weeks ago, though, and had seen her pretty often since then. Each time, she'd been out of her head on something or other, though she always smiled at me, and said hello, and made small talk with the two of us, even if a lot of it made little sense. She'd called me Portman from the beginning, which was something parents never did, and I loved her for it. In return, she asked that I never refer to her as Ms. Reed, but only Lila. I was only too happy to oblige; I hated titles. They seemed like the kind of thing you had to earn, but nobody ever did.  
  
Fulton looked down at the tray. On it were a shaving mirror, a razor blade, an empty Baggie, and a bunch of crumpled Kleenex caked with blood and snot. He rolled his eyes, and nodded. "Yeah, but dad'll binge on coke or crystal if one of his friends comes into some. Never lasts that long, though, and he never seems to get hooked."  
  
"More of the drinking type, is he?" I spoke casually, but my mind kept filling itself with nasty memories I'd hoped were long forgotten. If he was hurting him...  
  
Fulton sighed. "Yeah."  
  
"Fulton, I--" I began, but I was cut off by a high-pitched scream that issued forth from down the hall, followed by the sound of glass breaking, then a quiet sobbing. Fulton shot me a look that clearly meant "stay here," and hurried off in the direction of the sounds. I stayed put like a good boy for a few minutes, before curiosity got the better of me, and I went down the hall to see what was up.  
  
Fulton's mom was in bed. Her bright red hair stuck up wildly in places, slicked to her skull by sweat in others. She was shrieking and kicking, and Fulton sat on the bed, holding her tightly, trying to calm her down. She looked so small and delicate in her son's arms, like a wounded bird. I saw broken glass in one corner of the room, below a patch of wall that was dripping with water.  
  
"Who are you? Get out! Get out! Leave me alone!" she kept yelling.  
  
I felt bad, just standing there, so I went into the kitchen, and came back with a dustpan and another glass of water. Fulton noticed me this time, and beckoned me inside. I sat down opposite him, so that his mother was between us.  
  
She was trembling violently; her eyes were red and streaming, and she smelled kind of rank, but at least she'd stopped yelling.  
  
I smiled at her, and handed her the glass. "Hi, Lila."  
  
Fulton disappeared for a moment, and came back with a bottle of pills. He shook a couple of the large white tablets into his palm, and passed them to her. "This is Portman, mom. Do you remember?"  
  
"Portman... of course I remember," she whispered hoarsely, between great gulps of water. "You're here to take my boy away."  
  
At the time, I didn't think anything of her words. She passed out soon after that, thanks to the barbiturates Fult had given her. We cleaned up the glass, and headed down to the hockey rink. Neither of us spoke on the way down there, and I kept reminding myself to be grateful that my mother, for all her faults, wasn't a sketchy, pill-popping addict like Fulton's. We got to the rink a little early, so we sat on the curb while we waited for the rest of my team to show up. We were playing the Hawks for the first time since I'd defected, and I was really looking forward to crushing those fuckers like ants. Fulton had brought his hockey stick along, since he liked to practice his shooting in the alleys while we warmed up. He tossed it back and forth between his hands, which were covered with the same cropped-tip motorcycle gloves he'd been wearing that night I first saw him, in the alleyway behind my house.  
  
"You know..." I began, but Fulton was wise to me.  
  
"Don't start," he broke in.  
  
"But why, Fult? I don't get it. I mean, you can skate now."  
  
"The why is insignificant. What matters is that it's not going to happen, so you might as well just shut up about it."  
  
I'd been bugging Fulton to join the Swordfish for weeks now. I had taught him all I could about skating, and now we were working on enforcer skills, but what he really needed was a chance to show his stuff to other people, in a real game. The thought of a shot like his going to waste was sickening, but Fult would have none of it. I found out later it was due to a paralysing fear of being rejected by the hockey team that meant so much to him, but at the time, I thought it was just him being shy and antisocial. I knew there was more to this hockey/skating thing than I was getting, but I figured he would tell me about it eventually, which he did, though it took, as it so often did, a significant amount of prodding on my part. I didn't mind; he was Fulton, and idiosyncrasies were part of his appeal.  
  
At this point, I was still trying to piece together Fulton's life from the excerpts I'd witnessed first hand, and the tid-bits I'd gleaned from Fulton himself. It was strange, and sad, and beautiful at the same time. Beautiful because, in spite of all the shit he'd had to deal with, he'd managed to become this amazingly kind, complex person, nonetheless. He never moped or whined about the raw deal he'd been given, and I found that the more time I spent with him, the less I ever wanted to leave his side.  
  
Now, I knew there was something not quite normal about feeling like that. It was like we were moving into the Twilight Zone, but I didn't care. I'd never been much good with temptation; ask anyone. If it felt good, I did it. We were all going to die, some of us sooner than others, and I guess I never saw much point in denying myself, and it turned out Fulton felt the same way, once you got past the layers of painful insecurity, anyway. Thank god for that, or things might have turned out very differently, indeed.  
  
Sometimes, when I was with him, it felt like I was doing a hundred down a windy mountain road in the middle of the night. Like Angel and the others all over again, only different, too. And better. So much better.  
  
I want it on record that I knew what I was getting into from the beginning. I know Fulton thinks I had no clue, but he's wrong, for once. I may not have known the details of his life, all the little things he hid from everyone, but I knew they were there, waiting to be uncovered. Just because I jumped in with both feet where no one else wanted to go, didn't mean that I was jumping blind, and if it took me a while to understand exactly what it was I was feeling, then I'm sure you can forgive me, for I was young, and foolish, and I'd never been in love.  
  
Fulton's POV:  
  
"Holy cow, I think I got one, here / Now just what am I supposed to do? Got a number of irrational fears / That I'd like to share with you. First there's rules about old goats like me / Hanging around with chicks like you. But I do like you, and another one: / You say 'like' too much. But I'm shaking at your touch / I like you way too much. My baby, I'm afraid / I'm falling for you. I'd do 'bout anything / To get the hell out alive Or maybe I would rather / Settle down with you."  
  
--"Falling for You" by Weezer  
  
*I chose this quotation back while I was writing The Bash Brothers in Love. Apart from being an excerpt from one of the best songs on one of the world's best albums (Pinkerton, forever!), it also perfectly encapsulates Fulton's frame of mind for much of this story. Plus, I fool around a bit with the Madam Butterfly references, as you guys may or may not notice. I wanted to set the last scene in a Japanese restaurant to complete the theme, but I don't think they have fortune cookies, so Chinese it is. I've never actually seen the opera performed, but I love the deconstuctionist play.*  
  
"Hey McGillis! Heard your wife got the clap. Bummer, huh? Good thing you're not at risk, but what about the rest of Minnesota?"  
  
I was laughing so hard, tears were running down my face. Portman was in the penalty box for a dubious roughing call, and was voicing his opposition by hurling insults at any Hawk who ventured into earshot, the coach included. Though the Hawks were ahead, having taken full advantage of the Fishies' lack of goaltending talent, the game belonged to the Swordfish, Portman in particular. Even those who normally cheered for the Hawks were rooting for #21, as he shot out of the penalty box and tore straight for the net. He was held up in the slot by the Hawks' defence, who were double-teaming him, but he flattened them both and got right up beside the net. When Conway made a beautiful cross-ice pass to Guy, he took a shot, but the Hawks had collapsed in front of the net, and it couldn't make it through. Portman managed to hook the puck, though, and, swatting aside the only Hawks brave enough or stupid enough to try to check him, he flipped it up over the goalie's glove.  
  
The period was over. It was 2-2. I watched Portman, who was laughing loudly with Guy as they headed into the locker room. My stomach had twisted itself into a knot, and my palms were clammy. I felt pride, bemusement, fear and longing; but more than anything else, I felt the thing that felt like love. I rubbed my face vigorously, like I was trying to make myself wake up, but the feeling persisted.  
  
"Fult," I muttered to myself. "You are in *way* over your head."  
  
Johnny's POV:  
  
Most people go their whole lives without ever witnessing a miracle. I feel for them, I really do, but I am not one of them. Not anymore.  
  
I had some stuff to take care of at my cousin's that day, and I arrived at the rink as the first period was ending. Portman was just getting off the ice. He saw me coming, and waved me over.  
  
"Hey, Johnny. I didn't think you could make it."  
  
"And miss the bloodshed? Are you kidding? How many have you hospitalised so far?"  
  
Portman grinned wolfishly. "Well, Coombs is out for the rest of the game, at least, and they're not sure if Walker will make it back, either."  
  
"I suppose you're proud of yourself?" I teased.  
  
"Got that right. They were both legal checks."  
  
"Good to hear." I scanned the bleachers. "So, where's your mystery boy? I figure, today's the day I introduce myself."  
  
"Top corner, left hand side. That's where he always sits."  
  
I looked in that direction. "There's no one there now. You sure?"  
  
"Yup. He's probably gone to the john, or something. If you don't have any luck with him, meet me by the locker room after the game. I'll introduce you; it might help."  
  
"Help how?"  
  
"To get him to trust you. You'll have a hell of a time talking to him, otherwise. Look, Conway's calling me. I got to go. Offer him weed, if you have any. It helps calm him down."  
  
"Right. See you after the game. Good luck."  
  
"You too."  
  
I hurried to position myself so as to have a good view of the area Dean indicated, without being in the line of sight. Within moments, he arrived. He was exactly as Portman had described him, a show of contrast. His football linebacker's body contrasted with his soft, sad face; his impossibly pale skin seemed almost translucent when held up against the rink's bright lights, and the shadows cast across his face by hair as black as mine (black hair and whiter than white skin? Was that even genetically possible?).  
  
From all I had heard about him, it seemed inappropriate to merely stroll up and introduce myself; I should wait for the right moment. So I sat, feeling like one of those stuffy British entomologists waiting for the butterfly (though in Fulton's case, he turned out to be Butterfly herself) to do something noteworthy. I didn't have to wait long.  
  
I'd seen Portman play before, so I was used to his style, but that day was something special. He walked away with the game, though he only scored once, and his team ended up losing. I was still trying to grasp many of hockey's nuances, but even I could see that when Portman was on the ice, he was the only thing worth watching. He played with all the energy of a class five hurricane. He was so much bigger than everyone else, that he was literally pushing them aside with one hand, all the while keeping hold of the puck. The best part was the way he antagonised the other team, yelling things that made even me want to blush. It was pure Portman, on top of his game, and on top of the world.  
  
As much as I was enjoying myself, however, Fulton looked about ready to burst. He leant forward, slouching, his arms resting on his knees. His eyes followed Portman around the rink with an intensity I didn't understand at first. I thought he was furious at him, from the way he stared, like he was focussing all his energy into transforming him into a warty toad. With eyes like that, I wouldn't have been surprised if he'd succeeded. Every now and then, he'd give a great shudder, or bury his face in his hands. I'd never seen anyone act like that before; it was a pretty heady experience, the surrealism of which was doubtless propelled by the high levels of THC that were coursing through my bloodstream at the time. Though if you know me at all, you know that that is basically my resting state, and would not consider it to be a judgement impairment. I was completely transfixed by this kid for most of the second period. What was wrong with him? I toyed with the idea of his being seriously disturbed, but rejected that when I remembered Portman, and all he'd told me of his friend.  
  
Portman was changing before my eyes, and this kid was the catalyst. It was imperative not to judge him prematurely. His mom was big into drugs, apparently, and Dean thought he got hit a lot at home. Just then, one of the Hawks got his stick up in Portman's face and he went down. Before this could even register properly, Fulton let out a furious bellow, and tore down the staircase on my right. Portman was getting to his feet, and when he saw Fulton, he skated up to the glass, and they exchanged a few words. Blood was running down the side of Dean's face, but he was clearly okay. He was talking animatedly, waving his hands, when Fulton broke off. He threw himself at the penalty box the offending player was in, and started to vault himself over the edge. Portman, being separated from him by the boards, couldn't reach him to pull him down. Instead, he jumped into the penalty box, shoved its occupant aside, and grabbed Fulton by the arms, whispering to him frantically. After a moment, Fulton relaxed, then dropped back to the ground and, after a few more words with Portman, trudged back up the bleachers.  
  
As he passed me, he caught my eye, and in that moment, I knew. I knew what I had been watching all this time, why Fulton looked so tired and flushed and pained. He sank into his seat, his head dropping once more into his hands, and I could see he was trembling all over. So help me God, I was watching him fall in love with Dean Portman.  
  
Up until then, my interest in Fulton had been more or less clinical, but love, as you may have noticed, has a tendency to change everything it touches. I needed to know more, needed to know if what I'd seen was real. I walked over and sat down beside him. He looked up in surprise.  
  
"You're Fulton, aren't you? I was wondering when we'd meet. I'm Johnny Sheffield. Portman's told me a lot about you."  
  
His initially cloudy expression cleared somewhat, and he smiled slightly. "Likewise."  
  
Remembering Portman's suggestion, I offered him some of my homemade chocolate chip cookies. Heavy on the hashish, just the way my grandmother used to make them. They must have worked, because for the rest of the game, we swapped stories about our common interest: Portman. When he told me about Dean stripping on the soccer field in fifty-degree weather, I nearly wet myself. By the time the game was over, I was hearing wedding bells. Portman hadn't been exaggerating when he extolled this kid's virtues. Fulton was sweet, funny, sarcastic, and fiercely intelligent. They were perfect for each other.  
  
"He's single, you know," I said as I watched Fulton ogle Dean on his way to the locker room.  
  
"I know," he responded, without averting his eyes.  
  
"In fact," I continued, having for some reason to get this out of my system, to let this lovesick boy know that I was aware of how he felt. "He hasn't really been with anyone since he broke up with Angel. That was about the time he met you, isn't it?"  
  
Now Fulton turned that piercing gaze of his back to me. He didn't say anything, but he was clearly trying to read me, to figure out what I was thinking. I decided to lay all my cards on the table.  
  
"I love him too, you know."  
  
I've never seen anyone look so mortified. Fulton's face immediately flushed a deep, cherry red, and that was followed by a small coughing fit. When he recovered, he turned back to me, and his eyes were pleading.  
  
"I... I..."  
  
"Don't say anything. I just wanted you to know that's it's okay what you're feeling." He raised his eyebrows at that, but I was adamant. "Normally, I'd be worried about getting your hopes up, but since you look like you're about to pull out the hara-kiri sword, I guess there's little chance of that: Portman's not necessarily off-limits. Just because he's never been with a guy, doesn't mean he never would. You know as well as I do, Portman's not hindered by convention of any sort. Right now, he loves you like a brother, but that could easily change into something more. If he wants you, he's not going to agonise over it. He doesn't really know how to hide his feelings."  
  
"I know. I like that."  
  
"Me too. You don't see that much these days."  
  
"Sure don't."  
  
I saw Portman coming out of the locker room, hair damp from his post-game shower, an enormous sports bag slung over his shoulder. We went down to meet him, and before I could open my mouth to tell him what a great game he'd had, he started rattling off excitedly to Fulton. Something about accepting a challenge, the result of which was a showdown to be played between the Hawks and the Swordfish. Not just the Swordfish, though, but anyone they could find who might help them win.  
  
I expected Portman would have his work cut out for him, getting Fulton to play, but he agreed almost instantly. Guess he had a vendetta against those guys, as well. To me, it all sounded like something out of one of those sappy sports films; I was far more interested in the possibility of a modern-day love story emerging between these two.  
  
"Come on guys," I pleaded. "You can talk hockey with each other later. Let's go get something to eat. I know this great Chinese place; come one, I'm buying."  
  
***  
  
"Damn, Fulton, did you eat ALL the moo goo gai pan?"  
  
"Uhh... no."  
  
"Liar. Wipe the soy sauce from your mouth, you thief."  
  
It just kept getting better and better. They were adorable; they teased each other like the oldest of friends. When he was actually with Portman, instead of just watching him, Fulton's pining Romeo thing fell away, and you'd never know he was madly in love with the guy. Until, that is, we finally finished our meal--it was all-you-can-eat, and between the two of them, they consumed enough to feed a normal person for a week, maybe two-- and Portman got up to go to the bathroom. While he was gone, the waiter came back with three fortune cookies. Mine said: 'Your life will be healthy and peaceful.' That was already pretty much the case, but it was nice to know I had more of the same to look forward to.  
  
"What'd yours say?" I asked Fulton. He was holding the tiny slip of paper between two massive fingers, and was grinning like a Cheshire cat. He showed it to me. 'The object of your love is within your grasp.'  
  
Portman came back to the table, and sat down. "Let's see what the future holds for me," he snickered, cracking open his cookie. "'You will find true happiness in the most unlikely of places.' Well, that's a relief. I'd hate to find it in the same old spot." He dropped it onto the table as he stood up. "Those things are such a crock of shit. What'd yours say, Fult?"  
  
"Uh... mine was empty."  
  
Portman laughed. "Well, that's a bit of a gyp, isn't it? Here, you can have mine. I've got all the happiness I need right now." He handed Fulton the fortune, and I watched as he slipped them both into his jacket pocket, the strangest little smile on his face.  
  
Would you laugh if I said my life was never the same again? 


	12. Because sometimes it goes the other way,...

This one goes out to Quimby for reasons untold:  
  
~~Jesse's POV~~  
  
"Damnit, Terry. Move your ass! We're gonna be late," I called as I struggled to cram the last of our gear into the oversized duffel bad Dad had brought back from the hotel where he worked as a security guard and general handyman. It was navy blue, with its name and motto--The Executive Inn--we take your comfort personally--splayed across it in gold lamé lettering. Aside from duffel bags, we had t-shirts, housecoats, lighters, pens, fridge magnets and countless other trinkets, all similarly emblazoned. When I was a kid, I used to love the name's shiny allure, but now, all I felt was a slight pang of bitterness when I thought of all the money the company paid for advertising and image formation, money that could be going to my father to pay him a decent wage for the long, back- breaking hours he worked at that place, had worked for over twenty years, and where he would likely continue to work until he died.  
  
Using my foot to mash in the final glove and anchor the bag while I yanked the zipper shut, I tried calling my brother again. No response. I started down the hall toward mine and Terry's room. The game was on for eleven; it was almost quarter to, and we still had to get down to the rink. I could feel that familiar sense of nervous anticipation begin to well up inside me, what so often manifested itself in bravura-soaked sarcasm and belligerence.  
  
"I swear, Ter, if you're in bed--" I began as I threw open the door to our room. My brother was there, alright, but he wasn't hiding under the covers this time, but rather, was perched on the edge of his bed, rubbing his hands together anxiously. He looked up when I entered, and I could see the tension in his body, from his shifting eyes and whitened knuckles, to the hard line of his clenched jaw. He looked so ancient, like an old man trapped in a kid's body. What kind of chance was there for him, or me, or any of my friends? We were born trapped, and unless you won the lottery or something, there was little hope of ever getting out.  
  
I'd been living with this knowledge for years, so you think I'd be used to it by now. But you know what? Most days, it was still enough to make me want to scream.  
  
But screaming got you nowhere. The best we could do was to smash those cake- eaters' heads in, to beat them at a hockey match. It wasn't much, but it was something. "Come on, Terry," I said softly. "We gotta go."  
  
He looked up at me. "Jesse, man, I don't know if I can--" he began, but I cut him off.  
  
"Don't be stupid, bro, of course you can. It'll be just like playing on the pond."  
  
He shot me that 'don't bullshit me' look, and I had to laugh. People always seemed to forget--and I guess, at times, I was among them--that, for all his problems and fragilities, Terry was no dummy.  
  
"Okay, maybe not exactly like playing on the pond," I conceded. "But it won't be like D5, I promise. No one's going to give you any shit."  
  
Terry sighed, put his hands on his knees, and stood up slowly, like he was trying to summon his strength, and for a moment, I remembered how he used to be, before Mom left and everything went to hell. That Terry was a ghost, now, and this other Terry, a frightened, depressed, confused version of my little brother, had taken his place.  
  
My father thought that home-schooling might help, after the shrinks and pills had eaten up all his savings, and in a way, it did. It took Terry away from a lot of the things that were making him crazy, but it also imprisoned him with the rest of them, and lately, in the battle between Terry and his demons, the demons had been coming out on top.  
  
"Do I have to?" His voice wasn't plaintive or petulant, merely tired. Exhausted.  
  
"Come on, Ter, this is our chance to show those fuckheads that we're just as good as they are."  
  
"They're your friends we're playing with, Jesse, and your enemies we're playing against. I don't care what the Hawks think of me, or you, or anybody else. I don't care about them, period. I'll do this thing because I said I'd do it, and because I know how much it means to you, but I don't have anything to prove."  
  
That was good enough for me. I swung my arm around his shoulders, and we left our apartment without incident. Since my mom left, my brother and sister and I haven't had to worry about curfews--not that Terry ever took advantage of this freedom, mind you--Dad was always too worn out from work to try to keep track of us, or to be roused by anything short of a full- scale missile attack.  
  
Charlie and Guy were waiting for us down the street in Charlie's mom's old wood-panelled station wagon. "We were just about to go in and get you," Charlie stated in typical Charlie-fashion.  
  
"Hey, Terry, how you doing?" Guy countered gently, in equally typical Guy- fashion. "Feeling ready?"  
  
"Hard to be anything but, when Jesse's dragged me out to the pond every night for the past week," Terry muttered.  
  
Good. That meant he was comfortable, at least to an extent, with Charlie and Guy. But they've been my friends for forever, and I wondered what effect some of the others--Portman, especially--might have on him.  
  
'No sense worrying about it now, though,' I thought as we pulled into the parking lot in front of the rink. A shiny silver SUV roared in behind us, parking on a diagonal so as to stretch itself across several spaces, and began vomiting Hawks from its cushy leather interior. Four, five, six of them filed out in front of us, among them Tracy McGillis, whose brainchild this social caste hockey death match had been in the first place.  
  
We were late. I could see the other players gathered in front of the rink, a discarded mound of Zamboni snow separating one side from the other, not to mention dozens of investment portfolios, a penthouse or two, and about $100,000 in average annual income.  
  
I turned to Charlie as we started towards them; I couldn't remember the last time I was this excited. "So, we finally get to see who you managed to weasel into playing tonight."  
  
"Let's hope it's another goalie," Guy muttered.  
  
"It's not, so just shut up," Charlie said with a sniff. "We're lucky Liam even agreed to suit up."  
  
"Liam couldn't stop a puck if I threw it at him," I couldn't resist putting in.  
  
Charlie sighed. "I know. We're gonna need an iron-tight blue line and some serious firepower to make up for it."  
  
"And do we have that?" Terry asked curiously.  
  
Charlie flashed him his best teen idol smile. "You'll see."  
  
~~Guy's POV~~  
  
"Hey, Germaine! Nice shoes; you get your food from dumpsters, as well as your clothes?"  
  
"You're dead, traitor."  
  
"Double zero, it's not just his number, it's his way of life."  
  
Though I had long since grown accustomed to being taunted by the Hawks, I looked up to see who had delivered that last line. At least it was original, which was more than I could say for most of their material. The smirking face of the goalie, Harper Mason, met my gaze. Man, I hated that guy.  
  
I sized up the group of kids that comprised our team. The Swordfish were there, minus a couple of chickens, but it didn't look as if Charlie had made any real improvements. Lester Averman, Peter Mark, CJ Patkin, and a short, round kid named David Karp looked like the only new additions; I didn't even see Portman anywhere. They had all played hockey with us at some point, either as Swordfish, or back when we were still D5. They were nice guys and decent players, but hardly enough to keep us from getting thoroughly schooled by my former teammates.  
  
And then I saw her. She was leaning against one of the concrete pillars in front of the rink, smoking a cigarette, a battered sports bag at her feet. She was wearing a denim miniskirt that was far too skimpy for the weather, and there was a run up the back of her nylons, but she still looked the same as ever.  
  
Connie Moreau.  
  
I knew her from school and around the neighbourhood; she used to live on my block until my parents split up, and we had to move. Barely five-five and slight in build, she didn't look like she belonged anywhere near a hockey rink, but I knew better. She used to play for D5 until we were twelve, and was always our best D-man. She left when puberty kicked in, pucks and pads giving way to lip gloss and imitation leather boots. I'd had something of a crush on her, to tell you the truth; we used to hang out together after games and practices. But that all changed when she quit the team. She changed.  
  
Just kids growing up, I suppose, but I remembered how shocked I'd been-- shocked and hurt--when I saw her walking down the hall with Jay Danson's arm around her waist. The next week, it had been Mark Whalley, and the week after that, Michael Kane. I soon lost track of the guys, and eventually, of Connie herself.  
  
She had quite a reputation, but I always took what I heard with a grain of salt. It was strange, seeing her now, when she wasn't pissed drunk and making out with some guy at a party. She was talking with some friends of hers who had come along to watch, by the look of it: Tammy Duncan and May- Hui Chong, and I was reminded of the child I'd once known. And loved, I suppose. She had been my first... crush, or whatever.  
  
I walked behind her as we all filed into the rink once Tracy had unlocked the front doors. I couldn't seem to keep my eyes from that run in her stockings.  
  
There was only one locker room per team, but Connie wasn't shy; she immediately stripped down to her underwear and started putting on her gear without so much as a flush of embarrassment. Once fully changed, she sat down on the bench to wait for the others, and, after a moment's hesitation, I took a seat beside her.  
  
"Hey, Connie."  
  
She looked over at me and smiled, and I felt my heart speed up a bit the way it used to when her hand brushed against mine as we were walking.  
  
"Hey, Guy."  
  
"Did Charlie get you to come? I didn't know you still played hockey."  
  
"Affirmative on both counts. My brothers all have NHL aspirations, and need me to help them practice. I couldn't quit if I wanted to."  
  
"If you could, would you want to?"  
  
She shook her head, eyes twinkling, the eyes of a girl who loved hockey more than almost anyone I knew, and that was saying something. "Not in a million."  
  
The door to the locker room swung open just then, revealing a fully dressed Portman. "You boys ready to kick some upper class ass?" he roared, and the room broke out in cheers.  
  
Win or lose, at least the game promised entertainment, and a degree of safety, now that Portman was here. The real surprise came when his entrance was followed by none other than Fulton Reed, who tottered in on his skates to stand against the far wall, eyes lowered.  
  
Connie was looking at the newly arrived pair with all the amazement I felt. She turned to me. "How did Charlie get Fulton to play?"  
  
I shrugged. "Beats me. Maybe he's got something on him."  
  
Connie giggled. "Like blackmail? I bet he does."  
  
First Terry, Jesse's talented but disturbed younger brother, agreed to play, then Connie, and now Fulton. It was like all the East End kids coming together; was it really just to give it to the Hawks? I've been told I'm an idealist, so I'm probably imagining things, but as I skated out onto the ice, I could taste something lingering in the air, something stale, but not yet dead. I think it was hope. Not foolish hope, but hope tempered with a lifetime of reality. But hope for what? That things might turn out all right for us in the end, and I didn't mean the end of the game? Hope that, for once, things might change for the better, instead of getting worse?  
  
I positioned myself at centre ice, flanked by Jesse and Terry, Fulton and Connie the pointmen. "What's this, the Oreo line?" David Price sneered, laughing and dodging when Jesse made a lunge at him.  
  
There were only four Hawks on the ice; we waited while Adam Banks did up his skates on the bench, Price keeping us filled in on his in-depth analysis of our team's weaknesses.  
  
"I like your choice of defence, Germaine," he chuckled. "A girl and the missing link. Think they'll be enough to cover your sorry ass?"  
  
By this time, Adam was just getting into position, and Brett Sharp, whose job it was to drop the puck, grinned broadly. "Hey, I know her. I fuc--"  
  
"Just drop the puck, asshole," I snapped.  
  
He did, and the game was on.  
  
~~Adam's POV~~  
  
I was sitting at the kitchen table doing my homework, when the cell-phone I was carrying in the pocket of my khakis went off. My stomach dropped when I saw the number on the call display. It was McGillis, calling to make sure I was on my way to the rink. I had forgotten all about the game, the culmination of years' worth of antagonism between a handful of kids from the East End, and my friends and I. Or something like that, anyway. It had been going on since we were old enough to tell the difference between Nike's and Chuck Taylor's, and you know what? I was sick of the whole fucking thing.  
  
Frankly, I had better things to do than to go sneaking off at night to cream some poor kids at hockey. Maybe I shouldn't say "poor." Underprivileged, is that better? Either way, their utter lack of resources, rink time, and decent coaching (these last two obviously direct result of the first) marked them for a quick death at the hands of my team. Why was I bothering to show up? Yet even as this thought appeared in my mind, I was putting away my algebra text, and by the time I'd showered and packed up my gear, it was gone altogether.  
  
It was futile to think like that, when I knew I'd never act on the thoughts. I didn't hate Charlie Conway and his friends, didn't have a thing against them, really, but my friends did, and I had a tendency to go along with them, even when I didn't agree, because it was so much easier than the alternative. That sounded awful, I know, but everyone did it to some extent, did't they? Going against my friends would mean giving them up, and that was more aggravation than I needed right now. So I kept my mouth shut when they made fun of the Swordfish, and sometimes even played along. Not the high road, certainly, but not the low one, either. The story of my life: Adam Banks, man on the meridian.  
  
I felt bad about it, sometimes, but what could I do? Standing up for them wouldn't change a thing, just get me ostracised as well, and no way would any of them appreciate it. I was just another rich boy to them, a Hawk. That was fine with me; I'd be out of here in a few months, anyway. I'd already been drafted by the New Jersey Devils; they wanted me for the World Junior Championship in March, and after I graduated, I'd play juniors full- time, until they called me up.  
  
I was nobody special; I'd be the first to admit that. I wasn't that smart; I made straight A's only through massive amounts of studying, and I was too much of a wimp to stand up to my so-called friends, let alone my father. But I could do one thing right, and I wasn't about to let that get away from me. Those kids from the Swordfish might be doomed to lives unwanted, but not me. Hockey was my ticket out of this place, and after years of waiting and preparing, it was finally beginning to loom...  
  
Looming or not, though, it wasn't the future yet, but the present, and in the present I had to deal with stupid hockey showdowns, so I grabbed my bag, told the maid not to wait up, got into my Jeep, and took off for the rink.  
  
***  
  
'Who would have thought these kids could actually play?' I thought groggily as I drew myself to my feet for the umpteenth time after another solid check by one of their goons--Fulton, it must have been, I'd seen Portman sandwich McGillis against the boards right before I went down.  
  
Portman had the puck, and passed it to some short fat kid who promptly gave it up to one of our defencemen, but Portman knocked him down, and took possession again. Before I could make it back into our zone, he dropped the puck back to Fulton, who'd come up into the play again, and was just inside the blue line. He wound up, and let off another slapshot. Again, the defence scattered and this time the puck tore over Mason's shoulder and out the back of the net.  
  
"He's on steroids," Harjit was muttering, as we skated over to the bench.  
  
"How do you know?"  
  
He snorted. "Are you kidding, Banks? Look at him! The kid's the size of a fucking Mack truck."  
  
"He sure can shoot." Talk about understatements. I'd been playing hockey since I was three, and I'd never seen a puck move so fast, not even in the NHL. And from that weird, psycho punk kid, too. Go figure.  
  
Harjit laughed. "Yeah, maybe we should ask him to join our team. What do you think?"  
  
I laughed back, but it felt weak and forced. This wasn't the way I'd expected things to turn out, at all. We were ahead, but the best chances kept going to the Swordfish; our goalie was all that stopped them from taking over the game, and theirs had the same detrimental effect, by letting in goals that any decent net-minder would have smothered instantly.  
  
On top of it all, quite a crowd of kids had gathered to watch all this go down, and most of them were cheering for the Fish. I had to admit they deserved it. As a coach, Conway put his playing skills to shame. Their top forward line was on fire, and I thought I recognised the left-winger as one of the Hall brothers, the one who'd suddenly disappeared from school a couple years back. Portman had upped his game quite a bit since leaving our team, and I marvelled at the level of energy he managed to sustain, all the while pulling double shifts and smashing anyone in sight. The defensive pair of Fulton and Connie proved practically unbeatable. Even with Fulton coming up into the play all the time, Connie provided ample back-up, and twice stopped a two-on-one from producing a goal. The best part about those plays was the way Portman went nuts afterwards; watching him toss a fully geared hockey player into the air again and again, even one as small as Connie, was something to behold. When Fulton scored his first goal, Portman charged him down, pinned him in a corner, and pummelled him playfully, all the while yelling at the top of his lungs. He skated up to our bench, dragging Fulton behind him.  
  
"Where's your D-man? He have to go home?" he asked teasingly, referring to Freddy Olson, who'd made the mistake of trying to block one of Fulton's lethal shots. He ended up on the bench for almost three weeks after that. "Told you Fulton'd take all you pussies to town."  
  
As I learned when he played with us, Portman was an expert at getting under his opponents' skin, while remaining practically impervious to taunts and trash talk, himself. His antics had all the Hawks grumbling, but this only fired the Swordfish more. The way they supported one another, and cheered each other on, I was surprised to find myself a bit envious of their team, and the way they played; fast and loose, like they had nothing to lose, which I guess they didn't.  
  
I wanted to tell them that it didn't matter. None of this did. If we won, that was to be expected, and everything would stay the same, only they'd just get hassled a little more than before. And if they somehow managed to come out on top, well, they'd have bragging rights for a few weeks, and what would that change? Absolutely nothing, it was a joke. My friends would make excuses for the loss, and go right on teasing them when they felt like it, and ignoring them the rest of the time. They'd still go home to their trailers and three-room apartments, and go right on being young and disadvantaged and we'd go home to our Tudors and acreages, and go right on being rich, and lucky, and happy. The biggest punch line of all.  
  
~~Charlie's POV~~  
  
We lost. Of course we lost. Talent and desire will get you far, but not as far as money will buy. The final score was 7-6. Jesse managed to tie it up with only a few seconds left, but Banks scored in overtime to take it home. I felt more than a little responsible for the outcome; if I'd found us a better goalie, I think we'd have won, for sure. We had ten times the raw talent of the Hawks, even if it was all crammed into our first two lines.  
  
The weird thing was the way it didn't feel like a loss. We'd made a shitload of killer plays, and had shown real defence, too. Fulton and Portman had teamed up into some sort of forward-defensive superhuman wreaking unit; getting hit by one of them was bad enough, but imagine both, and at the same time. We had three injured Hawks to smile about, as a result.  
  
In the weeks and months that followed, I thought about that game a lot. The showdown with the Hawks hadn't been perfect, but it had been closer than I'd ever come to something magical. I wasn't the only one who noticed, either. I talked about it with Guy at length, how each great play had been like a ripple effect, stirring something deep inside, how our combined talent had far outstripped our individual prowess, and more than all that, how *good* it had felt, how much fun it had been. There had been more than a few fights, and one all-out brawl, which we won hands down, so while the Hawks emerged victorious that night, they were also bruised, bleeding, and minus a few players.  
  
Life was like a complicated math equation, a juggling of many factors, and if you missed just one or fucked up a tiny bit, then everything went to shit. Depressing, I know, but the thing was that every once in a while, it worked the other way, too.  
  
After the game, everyone was too excited to go home. Connie invited us over to her place to celebrate, and as we walked through the dark, moonless night, the familiar streets of our neighbourhood reached out to envelop us, and for once it felt like an embrace, instead of a smothering chokehold. I wondered what the repercussions of the game would be, and how big the ripple would grow. The answer was pretty damn big, and terribly damn unexpected, because as it turned out, the night was far from over.  
  
Notes:  
  
So, I figured I'd tack this on at the end, given how long I've been on hiatus. It wasn't even a hiatus, but a kind of exam-enforced abstinence from fanfiction. I wrote this chapter in mid-December, and haven't been able to get it typed up until now. Wish I could say I wrote another chapter in the mean time, but holidays and a heavy work schedule kept me away. Now that school's started again, I have to get organised, or you'll never hear from me again. I got a personal planner for Christmas, and will try to get a chapter out every other week, like clockwork. Will it work? Only time will tell.  
  
I don't like it when people make excuses for their work, but I have to write this: this chapter was written in a horrible way. With no time to sit down and write, this was pieced together from little bits I scrawled down between lectures, or while on the bus to work or school. Putting it together was something of a nightmare, but I've learned not to doubt my results on this basis alone. The first casualty of this half-assed writing style is humour, I'm afraid. I wanted more in-jokes and Duck details, but those require a bit of planning, usually, and I churned this out, instead. I think it works okay despite that, but I have higher hopes for the next few chapters, which will finally see some pay-off for my blue-balled Bash brothers.  
  
So, a few responses, or thank you's:  
  
bunny: Thanks, dear, your email made a particularly icky day more bearable. Glad you like my stories.  
  
RockAndRoll: I am the original swing kid. I was into Christian Bale for years before I discovered Elden's talent, and I maintain that he's the only actor of similar age who can hold a candle to my boy. American Psycho... great book, good movie, amazing performance. You don't need to be a good movie to be a good movie, if you know what I mean (huh?). And scared me with your movie knowledge, are you kidding? One of my only talents in life is playing Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon. So far, I am unbeaten. I won this contest at my school for getting Barbara Streisand in three moves:  
  
Barbara Streisand in "The Mirror has Two Faces" with Pierce Brosnan, who was with Denise Richards in "The World Is Not Enough" who was in "Wild Things" with Kevin Bacon.  
  
Ta-dah! I won copies of The Doom Generation and Sorority Babes at the Slimeball Bowl-O-Rama for that. Impressed? I thought so.  
  
Pixie: Hey, thanks for the review. It was great to learn you were reading and enjoying. I'll try to catch up on my reviews for you tomorrow, okay? Until then, no Jubilee-powers on your bio teacher!  
  
anne918: Yeah, for my money, you just can't beat the Bash brothers in love (I don't mean my story, of course). And I just like the sound of "moo goo gai pan," don't you?  
  
QteCuttlfish: I'm terribly sorry about the delay, I hope you didn't blame the deity... but I did see a cuttlefish on the discovery channel last week. Thought of you.  
  
KShyne99: Thanks! I just LOVE those virgin reviewers! I got so many this time, I'm all aflutter.  
  
huggles**bunny: Crazy, is it? I sure hope so... glad you think I'm staying within character, as well.  
  
spanishgoddess86: Hey, you even read Wolfsbane... I love you. I'll try to update that one, soon.  
  
denverhockeygirl: Family in Vancouver, huh? If I was at all school- spirited, I'd say "Go SFU!" But I'm not, so I won't. I'll say "Go Canucks!" though, more times than you'd like to hear, I'm sure. A Canadian living in Denver? Who's your team? I'll even forgive you if you say Colorado, because you left a nice review.  
  
Checkmate: Thanks, hon! Lovely name you have. Do you like chess? I always wanted to play.  
  
Solis: At the risk of sounding repetitive: UPDATE, YOU CHICKENSHIT MOTHERFUCKER! Kidding, I'm in no position to ask for anything. And yeah, that dirty-ass mouth gets me into a lot of trouble. Latin by way of necrophilia... I like it. And a rock through a senator's window... that's even better than spay-painting your school, especially if he was in the office at the time (forgive me a cruel chuckle). I'll have to try it. And yes, anyone who eats well-done steak deserves nothing but a slow death. And maybe a scorching case of herpes, while I'm at it.  
  
StalkyStar: It's been too long, my dear. I'll drop you a line on LJ tomorrow, okay? I still need to hear your Elden raves.  
  
Schiz: Do you hate me yet? Typing took too long, and now I leave you without an email yet again. And after I forgot to tell you about my LJ, too... If I don't talk to you tomorrow, may lightning strike me dead. By the way, your review made me feel all too good about myself, and you may be happy to know that I have a little more Johnny coming soon. 


	13. Everyone loves a party unless you're Ful...

"99 dreams I have had / In every one a red balloon.  
  
It's all over, and I'm standin' pretty / In this dust that was a city.  
  
If I could find a souvenir / Just to prove the world was here...  
  
And here is a red balloon / I think of you and let it go."  
  
--99 Red Balloons by Goldfinger  
  
~~Fulton's POV~~  
  
"Ahh! Quit it, you rabid Sumatran rat-monkey!" I yelled as I shoved Portman in the chest, sending him toppling to the floor with an enormous thud. "I told you, my left side's all banged up; you do that again, and I'll bite your nose off!"  
  
He rolled over onto his back, and grinned. "Oooh, I love it when you talk dirty to me. Tell me, Fult, what else would you bite, besides my nose? You know I like it rough."  
  
I sat up on the couch, still rubbing my bruised ribs. "You're drunk."  
  
He looked up at me earnestly, then down at the half-full bottle in his hand. He drained the beer, burped mightily, and with one foot, lazily rolled the empty bottle into the corner of the room, where other such bottles had begun to pile up. "Oh, I've got a long way to go, yet. I wonder if Hall and Conway are having trouble setting up that keg; that's the last of the beer."  
  
As if on cue, Charlie opened the front door and poked his head into the room. "Uh, Portman? The keg's here, but Connie's brothers had to go, and we can't get it up the stairs by ourselves. Can you and Fulton..."  
  
"Have no fear, Portman is here!" he yelled, flipping himself to his feet with a twitch of sleek, well-trained muscles. I shuddered. "Stay here and rest yourself, dear, I'll be right back," he teased, as he ducked out the door.  
  
I lay back on the couch and took a few deep, shaky breaths. Things were unravelling fast, now; I didn't have much time left before I snapped and tried to rape him, or maybe even kill myself. I couldn't keep going like this; it was like I'd swallowed a glassful of acid, like I was being eaten up from the inside out. How did normal people deal with this fucked-up thing called love? Was mine a mutant love, even more so than the sexual deviation factor could account for by itself? Or was this something everybody felt, just part of the broad spectrum of human emotions from which I'd once, foolishly, believed myself chiefly immune?  
  
I was a pretty laid-back guy by nature; my body wasn't used to this kind of internal tug-of-war. For what felt like an eternity, I'd been smothering any hint of sexual desire that arose when I was with Portman. But now, just like during the home stretch of one of my father's beatings, when the pain got so bad I couldn't keep it in any longer, my self-control was waning fast. Portman got all flirty when he was drinking, and even though I knew he didn't mean anything by it, it made things that much harder. When he'd tried to tickle me a few minutes ago, it hadn't been pain that made me push him away, but fear that if he kept touching me any longer, I'd kiss him or get an erection or something else to give myself away.  
  
I looked around for something to distract me from my desperate plight. There wasn't much, unless you counted the voyeuristic thrills of watching a bunch of almost-drunk kids going at it in a variety of places and positions. The music coming from the CD player was some unfortunate ska/reggae meld, and I figured that if I couldn't fix the Portman situation I was in, I could at least do something about the soundtrack of my pathetic life.  
  
The first bedroom I found bore no fruit in the form of CD's, only Connie and Guy sitting side-by-side on the bed, their hands clasped. They looked so much like the lovers you read about in old fairy tales; they were actually gazing into each other's eyes. Now, I'd seen a lot in my seventeen years on Earth, kids in all kinds of compromising positions, but I had never felt so embarrassed as I did right then. I'd walked in on sex before, but never on love. What passed between Connie and Guy that night, I don't know, but from what I saw, love definitely played a role, or at least the beginnings of love, the idea or potential of it. Most of what kids my age believed to be love, I thought was more likely the possibility of love, lying naked and raw and unclaimed by those to whom it was offered, and that it very rarely moved anywhere beyond that.  
  
I tried to extricate myself from the suddenly cramped bedroom without being noticed, but given the size-volume ratio between me and the room, the gesture was futile, and I winced as Connie gasped in surprise, and the two turned toward me.  
  
I smiled uncomfortably, unwilling to let them know how much I'd seen; technically, it had been nothing at all, but we all knew what a crock of shit "technically" could be.  
  
"Sorry... uh, carry on... I was just leaving..." I mumbled awkwardly as I backed out of the room.  
  
"Were you looking for something, Fulton?" Connie asked.  
  
"Uh, no, just your music."  
  
"Try my brothers' room across the hall."  
  
"Right."  
  
After securing a couple bad-ass bootlegs by the likes of Pennywise and Agnostic Front for auditory purposes, I returned to my seat on the living room couch just in time to see Jesse come tearing into the apartment, waving a bottle above his head in one hand, clutching a couple limes with the other.  
  
"TEQUILA!!" he shouted, shaking his ass to the music. "Who wants tequila?"  
  
From the kitchen, I heard a girl yell, "Tequila time! Get the salt, May!" Tammy Duncan stuck her head out the kitchen doorway, her face flushed. "It's about time, Jesse! Get in here now, and I'll give you the first shot." She giggled as she raised her shirt to expose smooth skin and a bellybutton ring with a butterfly pendant.  
  
Jesse grinned, and followed her back into the kitchen. I turned the music up to drown out the noises they made, and when Averman came up to me with a shot of raw tequila, I drank it eagerly, and didn't turn down the subsequent two he offered, either.  
  
"Looks like we're the only two who've yet to hook up with someone tonight, with the exception of Captain Chastity back there," he joked.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"You were fucking awesome tonight, you know? You and Portman make a hell of a team. You should--"  
  
But something in my expression stopped him from further postulating on what Portman and I should do. Instead, he coughed, and tried to change the subject.  
  
"Hey, remember the Warped Tour a couple summers ago? I never thanked you for helping me out back there; I thought those guys were going to kill me. Remember how--"  
  
"Don't mention it," I muttered, hoping the kid wouldn't launch into another long anecdote; I wasn't in the mood. I'd never had a drink before in my life, and I had to keep blinking to keep my vision from going blurry.  
  
"...so I guess I'm going to keep getting in shit until I can learn to keep my goddamned mouth shut, huh?"  
  
"Yeah, I know the feeling," I muttered, rubbing my eyes with the balls of my hands until black stars danced before my eyes.  
  
"Really?" Averman asked, incredulity clear in his voice. "Forgive me for finding that a bit hard to believe."  
  
I opened my mouth to say something in return, when someone grabbed me from behind, and I gasped, leaping about a foot into the air, and spinning around to face my attacker.  
  
I met only Portman's smiling face. "Shit, Fult, have a heart attack, why don't ya?"  
  
I only stared at him, my heart pounding in my chest like a kettle drum.  
  
"Uh, I think I'll go see what Karp's up to," Averman muttered after a moment, and took off.  
  
Portman sat down beside me on the couch. "Sorry I took so long; I ran into this chick I used to... know."  
  
"Oh yeah? Jesse have more than one sister out there?"  
  
"I told you, I didn't know she was his sister until afterwards! And no, she's nobody's sister. Do you think he's still mad about that?"  
  
I shrugged. "I doubt it; not if things with Tammy pan out, anyway. If they don't, look out, you may have a fight on your hands."  
  
Portman rolled his eyes. "Great. I hate it when that happens. It's so hard not to hurt them."  
  
"By "them," you're referring to..."  
  
"You know... small people."  
  
"Ah. I see."  
  
"And scrappy ones like Jesse are especially tricky; they don't go down easily... hey! What is this shit? How Can Hell Be Any Worse?"  
  
"Yeah, pretty sweet, huh? Belongs to one of Connie's brothers."  
  
"If we took it, do you think he'd notice?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
And then he kissed me.  
  
And then I died. For one long, beautiful moment.  
  
When I opened my eyes again, he was still there, his face inches from mine, his eyes wide and questioning, teeth gnawing on his lower lip. I thought I read shock in those eyes, and disbelief. The pain was worse than any I'd ever known.  
  
So this was how it ended. How ironic. A wonderful, magical kiss to bring everything crashing down about my ears. Wasn't that supposed to be the happy ending? Here I stood, atop my mountain of misery; I could see the shattered remains of my life lying spread out before me, and I found myself almost relieved that the end had come.  
  
I looked at Portman. Would he yell, or hit me, or just tell me to get lost and never come near him again? I could feel my insides shrivelling up like so many stale mushrooms. Poisonous ones. Deadly ones. I waited for the worst, but when it came, I was completely unprepared.  
  
"I love you."  
  
'There's a fine line between heaven and hell,' was a saying I'd heard before, but at that moment, the true meaning of those words exploded in my mind in a white-hot ball of flames. I felt annihilated, like someone had scooped out my soul with a melon-baller.  
  
Heaven or hell? Heaven or hell? Heaven or hell?  
  
Hell. It wasn't real. He didn't mean it. He was drunk, and I was drunk, and now I wasn't even sure if he'd kissed me at all. Maybe I'd imagined it. Wouldn't be the first time.  
  
And his proclamation of love? The result of the night's adrenaline, combined with alcohol and the nostalgia of running into an old girlfriend. Nothing more. And that's why it hurt so much. Knowing how I felt, how much I did love him, made hearing him say the same thing practically unbearable. It was impossible that he felt as I did; he was just fucking with me, in innocence or malice, it didn't matter. I couldn't stay here any more.  
  
I jumped up and ran for the door, but Portman caught me by the shoulders and spun me around. He yelled something, I couldn't hear what, and then I hit him in the face as hard as I could. He went down, and I went out the door, and into the needle-sharp night.  
  
I stopped by my place long enough to pick up a bottle of rum. I drank it all in the alley behind my house, and that worked pretty well, until I threw up all of my stomach contents, and my head began to clear again. Knowing as well as I did the dangers of a clear head, I wiped the puke from my mouth, and headed back home in search of a slightly more permanent solution.  
  
My mother was out of everything useful, so I went down the street a bit till I got to an apartment complex in measurably better repair than my own, which still wasn't saying much. I knocked on the door of apartment 306. A fat guy answered.  
  
"Jamal."  
  
He looked at me, grunted, and called something over his shoulder. Jamal appeared, an obviously underage girl in one arm. She was only half- conscious, and he had to support her so she didn't fall down.  
  
"Hey there, Fulton. Haven't seen you in awhile. Your mom was here today, bought a bunch of crank. Let me guess, she needs some Thorazine to calm her down?" He leaned the wasted girl against me, and disappeared into a room. He came back with a vial of clear liquid. "This what you after?"  
  
"I'll take it, now that you mention it, but..."  
  
He grinned. "But you wanted a little Scooby snack for yourself. Say no more. A couple grams of the same?"  
  
"Actually, I was thinking more along the lines of a little white horse."  
  
Jamal raised an eyebrow, but didn't say anything. "You got it, kid."  
  
I paid him, and he gave me the vial, a syringe, and a tiny red balloon.  
  
"As 99 red balloons go by..." I sang to myself as I walked along, fingering the balloon, the jet plane I'd be leaving on soon. Maybe I should write my own songs; that rhymed. Songs about break-ups, songs about boys, and love... I'd be better off sticking to things I understood. Pain. Drugs. Death. That was what it was all about. Ask Bad Religion.  
  
I went back home, crawling in through the window this time, since I could hear noises coming from inside. Now would not be the time to run into my father; in the state I was in, I'd just as likely slit his throat as look at him. In my bedroom, I got the baggie out of its box, and, after a brief flash of deja-vu, started cooking up a hit. If I could just hold off feeling a little longer, it wouldn't matter any more...  
  
'And what about when you wake up?' It was that fucking voice again, come back to haunt me.  
  
"Shut up," I told the voice forcefully. I wasn't up for a lecture tonight. My life was over, and all I wanted was to rest in peace. It had never been much of a life, anyway, and now there was nothing left to recommend it.  
  
Needle to spoon, needle to skin, poison to blood. Then sigh no more.  
  
Heroin is fun.  
  
Portman who?  
  
I want to die.  
  
***  
  
When I woke up the next morning, he was sitting on the corner of my bed. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his nose was purple and swollen from where I'd hit him. He looked awful, but he was smiling.  
  
"You didn't really think I'd let you get away that easy, did you?"  
  
*Okay, no notes this time, I'm afraid, but thank you to all my reviewers. This chapter is much shorter than average, but it's all I had time for today. I didn't plan on writing, but I had an hour-long break before my Insect Biology lab. I started writing this, and wrote all the way through my lab. Now I'm tired and hungry, with a Genetics midterm tomorrow I haven't studied for yet. This is a first, in that I wrote this chapter as I typed it, instead of in longhand. I'm posting straight away, as well; I always give it at least a day or two to stew, but I like how this thing came out, and I'm pretty sure there are no major changes that need to be made. It's been such a long time since I really wrote anything, at least a month or two, and the process was pretty cathartic. Anyway, sorry it's short and that I have no time for notes, but I guess it's better than nothing. I'll be back as soon as I can; leaving it like this for long would be evil, but I do have a bunch of midterms coming my way in the next couple weeks, so all the more reason to post this now, I figured. Let me know what you think.* 


	14. Kisses and Cadillacs

Portman's POV:  
  
He stirred a few times, made a funny little snuffle sound, and as his eyes slowly opened and came to rest on my own, I knew this was for real.  
  
"You didn't really think I'd let you get away that easy, did you?"  
  
He blinked at me, then sat up on the mattress, rubbing his eyes. I had to shift over to make room for him, and accidentally brushed his bare arm, the one with the needle mark still visible from last night. He jerked away from me like I'd burned him, looked down at the leftovers from his little party lying scattered about on the floor, then over at the door that led to the rest of basement. He was going to bolt; I could feel it. He started to stand up, but I pushed him back onto the bed, a little more forcefully than I'd intended.  
  
"Don't you dare run out on me again, man. We've got some things to talk about."  
  
He looked at me sideways, like he was waiting for something awful to happen. "Like what?"  
  
I snorted. "I swear, Fult, how can you someone as smart as you be so fucking dumb? How about me kissing you, and you bailing on me, or maybe this taste for heroin I never knew you had? Either of those would be a good place to start, don't you think?" I sat down heavily on the little wooden stool. I hadn't mentioned what I'd said last night, how I'd dropped the l- word out of the blue. Whether that was because I was afraid of scaring him off, or because I was still afraid, even after all that Johnny had said, that he didn't feel the same, I wasn't sure. Both, I guess. Since when did Fulton become so scary? He was Stick Man, the only guy I'd ever met who was crazy like I was crazy, but... he looked so different to me, now. And I liked it. A lot. How could I not have seen this before?  
  
He sighed, and nodded. "Yeah, I guess I owe you that. I got freaked, dude, what do you expect? You're like, the straightest guy I know, and suddenly you're kissing me, and saying... all sorts of shit, and all I know is you're drunk, and you just finished getting it on with some ex, some female ex, at that. I know you're not gay, but are you even bi?"  
  
How did this get turned around onto me? Damnit, this always happened with Fulton. The guy didn't open his mouth much, but when he did, look out. He could turn a conversation in any way he wanted it to go, and he used words and logic like weapons; trying to argue with him was like trying to scale the Great Wall of China using a fork as a pickaxe. But the thing was, he almost always had a point, just like he did here.  
  
I /was/ pretty drunk last night; what exactly happened after I went to help Conway with the keg? I tried to remember, and as I did, I spoke aloud my recollections to Fulton:  
  
Outside Connie's building, I ran into Laney, this girl I used to mess around with before Angel came along, and a couple times during that interval, as well, come to think of it. We'd been going on and off for years, since we were thirteen or so, but she lived in the housing projects off Gilmore Street, on the other side of town, so I hadn't seen her very often since I'd moved. She hadn't changed much, still tall and spindly with stringy, dirty blonde hair that was always a bit greasy, lots of scars and tattoos, but she had added another lip ring, to match her pierced nose, tongue and nipple, since I'd seen her last. She was tough, punk as fuck, sexy in her I-don't-give-a-shit-attitude, and had a lively, rather nasty sense of humour, all of which explained why we'd always got on so well. We started talking, comparing notes on shows and local bands, and she told me how she'd moved in with her new boyfriend last month. I knew the guy from working construction with him last summer; he was an asshole. I told her as much, and she agreed. I think that was when she kissed me, but maybe I kissed her first, it was hard to be sure. Anyway, the next thing I knew, we'd ducked into the alley for a quickie. It was too dark to see anything, and I liked the sightless contact, it made every sound amplified; our heavy breathing, the brick wall scraping against Laney's jeans in rhythm to my thrusting, the cars going by on the street behind us, an unknown something rustling softly to my right. I still liked Laney, and was plenty attracted to her--though in my inebriated state, I'd have probably made love to a garden gnome--but the whole time I was with her, I kept imagining she was Fulton. The feel of her hair reminded me of his, her skin was almost as smooth, but I wanted his body, his hard, strong muscles sheathed in softness. I wanted him. With nothing more than this thought in mind, I told Laney I had to go see someone (I didn't worry about her, that girl could take anything), and went back inside, where my sudden inspiration to woo Fulton blew up in my face. But I meant it, what I said. I still did. I just had to kiss him to know if what I felt was true.  
  
He was silent a long time before speaking, and when he did, his voice was so low I could barely hear him: "What, you mean you really l—I mean, you're not really straight?"  
  
I shrugged. "Got me, man. I'm so fucked up right now, I don't know what I am, except that I'm pretty sure I'm in love with you. I don't know what else you'd call it."  
  
He made a weird little noise in his throat, which he tried to cover up by a small coughing fit, after which he managed only, "So, it doesn't matter that I'm..." before his voice trailed off.  
  
"What, a guy? I guess not. I mean, I think you're pretty and everything," he raised his eyebrows questioningly, and I laughed. "But it's like I need you more... psychologically than physically, I don't know. I've never liked a guy before. Maybe it's only you."  
  
He looked a bit distressed at that, so I changed the subject. "So, you like me too, right?" He nodded wordlessly, and I smiled. "I mean, Johnny told me..."  
  
"What?" His eyes flashed, and I was reminded of our first encounter, how he'd frightened me with his fierceness.  
  
"Relax. After you ran off, I had to talk to him. He helped me figure out what I was feeling, and why you were acting like you were, and what I should do. He's really good for that sort of thing." I took a deep breath. Here we go. "So, if I like you, and you like me, we can be together, right?"  
  
"We are together."  
  
"You know what I mean." He shook his head. "You know... together. Like boyfriends, or whatever. Come on, dude, give me a break, here. This is hard for me, too." I reached out and stroked his cheek with my hand. He shuddered, and turned away. "What, so you don't want to be with me?" I couldn't seem to get a handle on the situation; the guy kept giving me mixed signals. I knew in my heart that he felt as I did, but I couldn't force him to admit it, could I?  
  
Fulton sighed, and thumped his head back against the wall a couple of times, hard enough to make it vibrate. "Shit, Portman, what's wrong with me? Why is this so hard?" He shifted his weight so he was facing me, but kept his head lowered, so his hair hung in his face. "I love you so much, it hurts to look at you. You know that, right? I've been falling for you since we met, and every time I think I've hit bottom, it's just another plateau for me to go tumbling off of. I can't live like this."  
  
I chuckled, and moved in closer. "You're just a sucker for pain, aren't you, Fult?" My face was inches from his; his breath warmed my cheek in short little bursts, but he didn't look up.  
  
"So I'm told," he muttered, as turned his head away again.  
  
I pulled back. "Why do you want to do this to yourself? I know you're scared of all the ways this could go wrong, all the ways you could get hurt; shit, man, I am, too. But even if all your worst-case scenarios came true, would you really be any worse off than if you never gave me a shot? I know I'm a slut, and I'm stupid and immature and irresponsible, but I would never hurt you on purpose, I swear. I'm not going to dump you for the next girl to come along; I've never had anything like this before, and damned if I'm going to be the one to fuck it all to hell."  
  
The words came out of me so fast, I was out of breath by the time I'd finished. I looked over at Fulton; his eyes were still glued to the floor.  
  
"Portman?" he asked softly.  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"I'm sorry I hit you."  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"Last night, after you kissed me... it was amazing. I just got so scared you didn't mean it... I'm such a fucking pussy. If I can't even take a chance on you..." He shook his head in disgust, then looked up at me with a shadowy little smile. "Want to try again?"  
  
"I thought you'd never ask."  
  
It was strange, new and wonderful, but familiar, too, because it was Fulton, and in the months we'd known each other, I'd come to know him better than anyone, except maybe Johnny. Once or twice, I almost pulled back--kissing a boy felt so different--but it was a good sort of different, the kind that scratched your cheek with stubble, smelled like sweat instead of perfume, and tasted like mint chapstick instead of cherry lip gloss.  
  
That morning, we went no further than kissing, something for which I was secretly grateful. Kissing a boy was one thing, but I'd just realised I was going to have to get used to a whole different kind of fuck, and I was a little anxious about it, to tell you the truth. So I lay down on his mattress, rolled over so my back was pressed up against the wall, and pulled him in close to me. We spent ages like that, just staring and touching and kissing; discovering each other in an entirely new way. And call me a liar, or whatever, but I really mean it when I say it was better than sex.  
  
I ran my fingers over the slightly raised flesh of the intricate tattoo that encircled Fulton's right bicep. It was gorgeous; a green, scaly dragon trimmed in gold, flames licking out from its nostrils. His uncle had done it for him when he was twelve, or so he had told me.  
  
"Did you design it yourself?" I asked.  
  
"Yeah, right. No, my mom did." He paused. "She always said I was a natural born chaser."  
  
I knew the term; Angel used to call her brother that, cause the guy was always smoking heroin. "Are you?"  
  
"I like to think all my problems are genetic, it cuts down on liability."  
  
I looked down at the empty syringe lying wedged in a crack in the concrete floor. "So, how long have you been... you know?"  
  
"Chasing the dragon?" He sighed, and looked up at the ceiling. "Since before I was born, man."  
  
I thought about that for a minute. "You mean you were a heroin baby?"  
  
He nodded.  
  
"Your mom's not still..."  
  
"Nah, we went through methadone together, I'm told. She still uses sometimes, though. And me... I don't know. I don't know what I'm doing."  
  
"Looks like slow suicide to me."  
  
"Maybe, but then what do you call life?"  
  
"Touché. So, you're not a junkie?"  
  
He shook his head. "I don't shoot very often, just when I need, you know..."  
  
"Serious pain relief?" I suggested.  
  
"Yeah." He was silent for a moment, as I played with his hair, and then, "Portman?"  
  
"Uh-huh?"  
  
"How the fuck are we going to get out of here alive?"  
  
"Not just alive, together."  
  
"Same thing."  
  
I grinned. "Yeah. First, we have to promise to always be straight with each other. No lies. Second, you have to join the Swordfish."  
  
"What?"  
  
"You heard me. And if you score a goal, I'm going to kiss you, and fucked if I care who sees me do it." I felt so lucky, like I'd just won the lottery, and he was the prize. I kept thinking of all the things I'd get to do with him, all that we had waiting for us, all I had yet to uncover about him. I loved the feeling of not knowing what was coming next, so different from what I was used to. My stomach felt all fluttery, but in a good way, like right before going out onto the ice in a big game, only more so.  
  
He thought about it for a moment, then a smile broke out on his face, so wide it threatened to split it in half.  
  
'And I'm the reason for that smile,' I thought giddily. I couldn't believe how good that felt. 'That smile is for me. ME.'  
  
"Okay," he said. "You talked me into it; I concede. Now come on, I've got something to show you."  
  
***  
  
"Fult, what's going on? What's there to show me at J.J.'s?"  
  
"Patience, my friend. Wait here."  
  
He went through the blue-painted door at the back of the tiny garage. I looked around. I knew Fulton worked here part-time, but I could never figure out what he did the whole time; the place never seem to get much business at all. There was only one car in the garage, a navy blue old model Lexus sitting alone in the corner, and looking like it had been there a long time.  
  
The sound of the back door opening turned my attention towards it, and in stepped Fulton, followed by a short, well-built man with a shaved head, and a cigar in his mouth. "J.J., this is Portman. Portman, J.J."  
  
The guy extended his hand, and I shook it. "A pleasure," he said. "Fulton tells me you're okay, and I trust him, but I just want to make sure you know that I demand the utmost discretion from all my visitors, for legal reasons, of course. Still, I could really use another set of hands right now, so come along with Fulton next time, if you're up for it."  
  
"Yeah, sure." I was beginning to understand what this was all about. The guy must run a chop shop, and the garage is only a front.  
  
"Great. I gotta go, big order comin' in. Come by tomorrow, if you can." He gestured to my face. "Nice nose, kid. Who did that to you?"  
  
"He did."  
  
J.J. looked from Fulton to me, and back again. "I don't doubt it. Maybe you two should join the circuit; I'd pay big money to see you go at it. Just promise me you won't kill each other till this order's filled."  
  
"Promise."  
  
"Good. Nice to meet you Portman. See you guys later."  
  
Through the blue door, and down many stairs we went; my suspicions were confirmed upon entry to an enormous underground garage, with three or four guys in greasy coveralls working on cars in varying states of deconstruction.  
  
As Fulton led me towards the back of the room, one of the mechanics stopped working to say hello, to which he responded with a nod.  
  
"Here it is," he said proudly, gesturing to the shrouded form of a car covered with a large dust cloth, which he removed to reveal a beat-up old Cadillac. A black one, my favourite colour. 1979 El Dorado, a real beauty.  
  
I whistled. "You're working on it for J.J.?"  
  
"Nope. For me. It's mine."  
  
"You're kidding." He just smiled. "Did you steal it?"  
  
"No, she was nothing when I started, I've been working on her for years. All that's left now is the body work."  
  
"Wicked. So, you're going to take me for a ride?" Oops, THAT could be taken two ways.  
  
He cocked an eyebrow, and I immediately felt it between my legs. 'Oh, boy,' I thought, as I opened the passenger door and slipped inside. The front seat was a bench, so as soon as Fulton got in, I slid over so I was pressed up against him. The white leather interior was worn, cracked in places, leaking stuffing in others; I immediately felt at home in the car. For one thing, it was big enough to seat us both comfortably, and my head didn't bang the ceiling. When Fulton turned the ignition and the engine roared to life, I could feel power surging up from beneath me. I felt like Steve Buscemi in Armageddon, riding that massive nuclear warhead. As we drove up the ramp and out of the garage, several of the mechanics cheered.  
  
We drove slowly through our neighbourhood. I felt like a gangster. A mafia man. "Man, give this baby an open road, and I bet she'd just /fly/."  
  
Fulton looked at me, and nodded excitedly. "I've been working on her engine for months, totally re-built from scratch. This is the first time I've really taken her out. She'll be ours, Portman. Yours and mine. We can drive all night, if we want."  
  
I kissed his neck. "I love you."  
  
He shivered. "Say it again."  
  
I laughed, and started to undo his pants as he drove. "I love you, Fult."  
  
His eyes widened as he realised what I intended to do. "Um... are you sure this is a good idea? Not that I'm not eager, mind you..."  
  
"It'll be fine," I murmured. "Just keep your eyes on the road. And bear with me, I'm a beginner."  
  
~~Approximately ten minutes later~~  
  
"You sure don't act like a beginner," Fulton giggled, as he rebuttoned his jeans.  
  
I took a mouthful of water from the bottle at my feet, swished it around, and spat out the window. I'd had girls try to explain the taste to me before, and Angel was right, indescribable was the word that best described it.  
  
"I've seen it done a lot."  
  
"I bet."  
  
"Fult? Have you ever fucked a girl before?" He shook his head. "Ever wanted to?"  
  
"No."  
  
"You've always been into guys, then?"  
  
"I guess, but it doesn't happen very often. Most of them just annoy the hell out of me."  
  
I thought of Mike, and Joe, and the other losers I'd probably be hanging with right now if I didn't have Fulton. "I know what you mean. So, how many guys?"  
  
"Have I slept with? Just one." I looked at him expectantly. "This kid in juvie, when I was 12."  
  
"Oh. Was it... consensual?"  
  
He smiled. "Yeah. I stopped him getting raped by these older kids. He was 15, but kinda small. Scrawny, even. Lucasz. With a Z. He was Polish."  
  
I watched him slowly fade away into the past, his eyes clouding over in remembrance. I waited for him to come back, before asking, "What happened to him?"  
  
"He got out a couple months before I did. Moved to New York. I never saw him again."  
  
"What was he in for?"  
  
"Arson. He was pretty fucked-up."  
  
"But you loved him?"  
  
He thought about it. "I almost did. Maybe I was too young, I don't know. But it wasn't anything like this. What about you? Have you ever loved anyone?"  
  
"I don't think so, unless you count Johnny, or maybe my mom. Angel was Angel, and I love Laney as a friend, but everyone else was pretty much just a lay."  
  
"You little tramp. How do I know I won't catch a disease from you?"  
  
"Oh, that's rich, coming from a gay boy. Besides, you knew full well what you were getting into."  
  
He put his arm around my shoulders, and rubbed my hair. "That I did. So, where do you want to go?"  
  
I looked at the clock on the dashboard. It was early yet. I wanted to go somewhere loud, but I knew Fulton was a lot less social than I. "My mom'll be out all night. We could go back to my place."  
  
"Or we could check out the Cobalt Room. It's Punk Rock Bingo Night, isn't it?"  
  
"Yeah. This guy I know is playing there tonight. He'll get us in to the after party, if you want."  
  
He looked at me, and his eyes were shining so brightly that for an instant, I thought he was going to cry. "You're going to change everything, aren't you, Port?"  
  
I didn't say anything, just stared out the window of the Caddy as we cruisded down the road, eating up the dashed yellow lines like a Pac-Man. Things had been changing so much lately; was it only the beginning? I sure hoped so. So many things needed changing.  
  
Notes:  
  
Monday was my last day of classes for this semester, and I finally had time to wrap up this chapter, which I'd been sitting on for far too long. I'm only taking two or three courses this summer, so I promise the next one won't take so long, okay? I know things are pretty gooey and angsty now, and while more angst cometh, there should be more fun, as well, so I hope I haven't got you guys down or anything. I missed out on the notes last time, so I have to do a bit of catch-up. All these readers I didn't know I had came out of the woodworks:  
  
Pixie: Wow, keep those comparisons to Tolkien comin', baby, you know I love them! Now that school's out, I'll be checking for Missing Scene updates and reviewing soon. I'm sorry to say that the non-Minnesota Ducks will not be appearing in this fic, except for possible references, but take heart, dearest Ken-lover! My next full-length fic will feature the Bashes, Ken, and my first big OC in primary roles, so if I ever get around to that, it should deliver what you desire, I hope.  
  
IceEyes: Man, I just love virgin reviewers! I'm sorry this took so bloody long, and I'll try to make the next update speedier, okay? I like to imagine you as having those really cool, frosty blue eyes, like Elden's, only darker.  
  
NYgoldfish: I'm so pleased to learn that you've been reading this, and that you like it so much. I often wondered if you'd ever read any of my stories. Saying that my writing makes you feel IS one of the best compliments I could get, so thank you. I hope you liked this one.  
  
KShynne99: Another big MD fanfic presence! Very glad to have reeled you in, dear. You may not be all caught up by now, but if so, thanks for the review.  
  
Checkmate: I have to ask: If not for chess, what are you named for? Hockey?  
  
Cards: Woah, indeed. You reviewed BBL a LONG time ago, didn't you? A fellow Everclear fan, if I recall correctly? Great to see I've kept your interest all this time!  
  
huggles**bunny: Another long-ago reviewer resurfaces. I suppose I have my ungodly delay to thank for the influx of new reviews. Anyway, thanks for the thumbs up!  
  
~T~: I hope this provided you with some release, with regards to the Bashies' relationship.  
  
Lisa14: Ask and ye shall receive. I got your review just as I prepared to upload this chapter. I may not be able to promise consistent updates, but I can promise this: that as long as I write fanfiction, it will centre around the Bash Brothers. I wouldn't have it any other way.  
  
Anne918: Hey Gina, how was your vacation? Where'd you go? Get lots of inspiration for Opposites Attract, I hope? I'll have to make sure my reviews are up to date... I'm hoping to prompt some much-needed rainfall in the Duckie fandom, now that I have more free time. If we can get Star and Schiz to join in our updates, I'll be as happy as a Bashie in a mosh pit!  
  
Schiz: Missing you, babe. Hope you're not working yourself into the ground, or getting too comfortable as a fry-girl, because I have different plans for you, yes indeed. Write me soon and let me know what's going on with you, okay? 


	15. Postcards from the edge, part I

Chapter 14: Postcards from the Edge, part I  
  
Fulton's POV:  
  
I ran my fingers back and forth across his arm, until all the short, dark hairs stood on end. Then I smoothed them back down. I traced the outline of the thick, pinkish scar on his elbow (he crashed his dirtbike a couple years ago), and down across the crook of his arm. He shuddered slightly at that, so I caressed it again. I slid down the mattress, and brushed my lips against the smooth, tender spot. His body was so hard, but it responded to my every touch, anticipated my every move. His other arm was pinned beneath me, and he pressed against me until he freed it, then cupped the nape of my neck in his hand, and started to rub gently. His touch excited all the downy hairs at the base of my hairline, and a shiver of pleasure ran through me. I buried my face in his long, curly hair, and breathed him in, like nitrous oxide at a dentist's office. The effect was startlingly similar. He smelled like sweat and cigarettes, with a hint of the spice (paprika?) he'd used in the pasta sauce last night.  
  
He grabbed my head in his hands, and pulled it back, so my eyes met his. "Don't," he said. "I haven't showered. I'm stinky."  
  
"Stinky, or sexy?" I muttered, brushing his hair back so I could nibble at his ear.  
  
"Stinky," he replied. "And hungry."  
  
My hand crept into the pocket of his jeans, and pulled out the battered old sports watch he'd removed during the game last night.  
  
He chuckled, and yanked the watch from my grip. "You fiend. You totally copped a feel when you did that."  
  
I grinned in response. "Maybe. What time is it?"  
  
He squinted at the timepiece in his hand. "After one. We slept hard."  
  
"That means Dad's probably gone, along with the leftovers from last night. Go upstairs and shower, and we'll head over to Johnny's for something to eat."  
  
He sat up, so he was straddling my chest, and kissed my nose once before getting up. "You want to join me?"  
  
"Don't tempt me," I said, propping myself up on an elbow. "You said you're stinky; you know it's impossible to wash with both of us in there. Last time, we nearly broke through the wall."  
  
"Yeah, yeah," he muttered, as he bent over in a corner, while I enjoyed the sights. "Fult, have you seen my underwear?"  
  
I checked under the covers, then took a look around the room. "I don't see them anywhere."  
  
"See if you can find them, won't you?" he asked as he slipped my old Pink Floyd t-shirt over his head; it didn't quite cover the lower curve of his ass, and the tip of his penis dangled visibly. I licked my lips, and stared. "You know I hate boxers." Déjà-vu. Or more like déjà-entendu. Where were we the first time he said that? My boyfriend was quite partial to boxer briefs, much to my delight; he preferred going commando to wearing shorts.  
  
I nodded. "I'll look."  
  
He stopped by my ghetto blaster long enough to put in a CD, and press play. The first loud, no-nonsense chords, as played with trademark verve by Johnny, of the Ramones' Too Tough To Die album filled the room. "Back in a minute," he said. And he was gone.  
  
I lay there on the mattress for a while, just listening. Listening to a dead man sing, and another play bass. Was today Thursday? I wasn't sure. I wasn't even sure what month it was, until I really thought about it. January. It was the first week of January. School had started up again, but we hadn't been back yet. Had it really been only five weeks since it began? I marveled at the way time could telescope like that, stretching minutes into hours, or months into days. And it never worked the way you wanted it to, did it?  
  
This was probably what my mom felt like after coming down from a really long bender; all the memories of the past few weeks seemed to pile up randomly on top of each other, regardless of the time of their occurrence. Already, my life before Portman was like something that had happened to somebody else, like scary bedtime stories told to me that I never quite believed. I imagined Portman in the bathroom, stepping out of his boxer briefs, reaching one long, tanned arm past the curtain to turn on the water...

%&%&%&

I looked down in surprise, my fingers still clasping the zipper of his jeans. He wasn't wearing any underwear.  
  
"All my briefs are dirty; I hate wearing boxers," he spoke casually, but with a gleam in his eye that made me suspect that a lack of clean garments wasn't the only reason behind this. He must have anticipated this moment, much as I had, in thinking to bring a tiny jar of Vaseline to a punk show. We were in the men's room of Buster's Ballroom, and the walls trembled with the vibrations from the Salad Kings' wicked baselines, while I trembled with the vibrations of love. Vibrations of love? I must be stoned.  
  
"Here," I muttered, slipping the jar into Portman's palm. He didn't respond verbally, but instead, stroked my cheek and stared at me, reading the willingness in my eyes.  
  
I turned around so I was facing the wall, and tried to keep my breathing under control as he worked on my fly.  
  
Pants fell, hands groped, a piece of him entered my body. It hurt a lot. I never wanted it to end. The grungy tiles felt like soothing ice against my face, and I felt like crying for the first time in years. I doubted if I even remembered how, it had been so long. His arms encircled me, and his mouth worked feverishly at my neck, biting, kissing, sucking. He moaned. I moaned. The toilet flushed in the stall beside us, and I heard a voice mutter: "Fucking queers."  
  
A small laugh escaped my lips, hanging in the air for a moment, before drifting away. 'Where do all the laughs go?' I wondered vaguely, before Portman started to speed up, and the remains of conscious thought floated away after the laughter.

%&%&%&

For someone like me, it was akin to waking up from an enchanted sleep. That first time had been... but was it the first? There had been so many... yes, that was it. In a public washroom at Buster's. We'd gone back there since then, a week or two ago, to see the Dead Pigs, and I remembered how the place had seemed to pulse with new life, new life infused into it from what had passed there between Portman and myself. Every place where we spent time together was like that now, like it had been born again, just as I had.  
  
The sound of the water from the shower above my head was still going strong. When Portman was done, I'd have a quick wash myself, and then we'd go over to Johnny's. Not only had Portman brought me to life with his beautiful self, but he was helping me to start interacting with other people as well. The Swordfish were the perfect example, but there was more than that. He brought me into his life, and into those of all the people in it. I'd met Angel, hung out with Laney, had dinner with his mom, and spent more time at Johnny's greenhouse in one week than I used to spend at my house in an entire month.  
  
While all my instincts screamed at me that Johnny was too good to be true, and not to trust him, I knew this was bullshit; I'd thought the same thing about Portman, once. That someone like Portman existed, and that he loved someone like me, were unbelievable enough by themselves, but when you threw Johnny into the mix... He wasn't just pretending to like me for Portman's sake, either. He honestly cared about me, about both of us, and all he wanted was for us to be happy. He'd told me that the first time I met him, and as hard as it was for me to believe him, somehow, I'd managed it. I think the first time it really hit home for me was the night he came to drive us home, about two weeks after the hockey showdown. We'd taken the Caddy down to St. Paul to sneak into the Vandals show. They'd played the Arena, a 21 show, with a beer garden.  
  
Since we had money from working at J.J.'s, and since Portman was a drunk, and I'd never had the chance to build up a tolerance to alcohol (was there a time when the very idea of drinking was enough to scare me shitless? I almost remember that...), we left the Arena that night in a less than sober state. I was actually drunk enough to think I could handle driving home, but thank God, Portman was a bit more lucid. He called Johnny, who, despite the late hour, was more than willing to taxi all the way down to St. Paul to drive us home in my car...

%&%&%&

"1335 Brownstone Drive, your number is... UP!" I swung the bat, and connected with the wooden mailbox. It sailed through the air, and I whipped my head around to watch it crash-land on the pavement behind us, sending canary yellow splinters flying everywhere.  
  
The Cadillac swerved slightly, but quickly regained control. I ducked back inside and sat down, handing the bat to Portman and brushing the wind-swept hair from my eyes. "Your turn."  
  
"Jesus CHRIST!" Johnny yelled from the front seat. "Was that a mailbox?"  
  
"What'd you think it was, genius?" Portman muttered. "Skooch over, Fult. I gotta get onto your side."  
  
It was hard going, trying to exchange places with him, even in the Caddy. He had to press tight against me to get by (or maybe he didn't, but anyway, that's what he did), and by the time we'd both sat back down, I was more than a little aroused. I could see Johnny shaking his head at us in the rearview mirror, but that didn't stop his eyes from smiling.  
  
"What are you doing with a baseball bat in your car, anyway?"  
  
"Fulton uses it to mug old ladies," Portman quipped. Johnny rolled his eyes exasperatedly, but the corners of his mouth were twitching. "What, you didn't know?" he asked. He peered out the window, looking for a target, but the stretch of road we were on now housed nothing but convenience stores and drycleaners with giant light-up signs that wouldn't look out of place on the Vegas strip.  
  
"You kids are going to get all of us arrested; would you still think it's funny then?"  
  
Portman and I looked at each other for a moment, then nodded. "Even funnier, maybe," Portman added. "But don't worry, Johnny, we'd keep you from being some biker's bitch."  
  
"Thank you, Dean, that's very reassuring."  
  
"Dean," I said softly. "Dean. Maybe I should start calling you Dean. I don't know of anyone who calls their boyfriend by his last name."  
  
"Well, you do now," Portman growled. "Unless you want me to start calling you by your middle name, CECIL."  
  
"All right, all right," I muttered. "Peace. Hey, look, there are some houses coming up."  
  
"Oh no," Johnny moaned. "Not again."  
  
But even he was laughing as Portman wound up, and connected with the aluminum mailbox of 668 Main Street. It had one of those red plastic flags that mailmen used to indicate a delivery had been made, and the number was painted in white on its side. The mailbox flew almost straight up into the air. Portman leaned further out the window, but then dropped back into his seat. "What a gyp, I couldn't see where it land--"  
  
THUD. It hit the roof of the car, and bounced off. It landed on the road, and the Cadillac gave a great jolt as it ran over its remains. Portman and I were in hysterics, and Johnny was still whooping it up in the front seat.  
  
Two mailboxes later, I was lying with my head in Portman's lap, trying to control the nausea that was threatening to rise up in my stomach. I was sore all over from the concert, and while most of the sweat on my body had dried up, my clothes were still soaked, and the chilly night air coming through the open window blasted through them, making me shiver.  
  
I could see Johnny's eyes in the rearview, regarding me with concern. "Are you okay, Fulton? Do you want me to pull over?"  
  
I shook my head. "I'm fine, thanks. It'll pass."  
  
The feeling did pass, and by the time we were back in Minneapolis, I was in high spirits again. Johnny pulled over in front of my complex, but after Portman pointed out that the lights were on in my place, he said that we owed him for coming to pick us up, and that we'd stay at his place tonight, and help him in the greenhouse tomorrow. At the time I was a little annoyed, because like I said, I was feeling good, and had been making a list of things I wanted to tell my dad, all of which revolved around his being an evil rat bastard. In retrospect, Johnny likely saved me from innumerable injuries by not letting me out of the car. He never acted like he did, though, or even mentioned it again, except to laugh at how drunk I'd been, and the ensuing game of mailbox baseball.

%&%&%&

That was Johnny for you. He never judged us, or got on our backs about our antics, or the way we never went to school. He'd only intervene when he really believed we were doing something we would later regret, and to that effect, he was rarely mistaken. He always said he believed in letting people live their own lives, and make their own mistakes. I asked him once why he never tried to change how we were, and he only looked at me in surprise. "Why would I want to do that? And more importantly, what makes you think I even could?"  
  
Well, that one was easy enough: Because Portman and me, we'd do anything for him. He'd built up such a bank of trust with Portman over the years, and that account had been transferred over to myself since the two of us got together; if Johnny had told us to put on grass skirts and dance the hula on his front lawn, we'd have done it, no questions. But he never asked anything of us. He gave us food, friendship, drugs, advice, and a place to go to whenever we needed it. He gave me the first bit of hope that Portman and I could make it in the world together. I remembered lounging around Portman's apartment, a few days after the Vandals show, and we got to talking about how they'd first met:

%&%&%&

"You were eleven, right? The thing is, I just can't see Johnny going out with your mom. No offense."  
  
"None taken," Portman wheezed, ashing the joint he was holding, and passing it to me. "Actually, I was the one who introduced them."  
  
"Really? How'd that happen?"  
  
He got a far-away look in his eyes, which meant he was remembering something he'd rather forget. I got up to open the window to diffuse the smoke, and waited for him to continue.  
  
"Remember that Dylan guy I told you about?" I nodded, saying nothing. One of his mother's ex-boyfriends, the guy was a real nasty bit of work, from what I'd gathered. Portman didn't like to talk about it, but from off-hand references and a couple drunken revelations, I'd pieced most of it together:  
  
When they were still living in Chicago, his mother had been quite smitten with this Dylan guy, who worked as a roadie for Slipknot, and other bands. He'd returned her affections, but hadn't been so keen on her baggage, and he'd started in on Portman almost immediately, locking him in the bathroom when his mother was out, hitting him every time he turned around. It was over eight months before Mary believed him, and another two before she finally got around to dumping the asshole because of it. Then Dylan would promise he'd changed, that he was ready to settle down, and that he'd take it easy on Portman from now on. Of course, he never did, and it was four more months, and a couple more make-up-break-ups, before he pushed Portman's mom down two flights of stairs after she intervened on his behalf, that she finally decide to end it for good. Dylan didn't take the news very well, and after a lot of creepy, stalker-of-the-week shit, Portman and his mom moved to Minnesota.  
  
"I know it sounds weird for an eleven-year-old boy to be depressed, but I was. My mom blamed me for what happened with Dylan, and I guess she was right about that. I'd never had a father, so when I told her about what he did, and she said that's what all fathers were like, I took her word for it, you know? Her first boyfriend in Minnesota wasn't nearly as bad, but once the school called my home because I was fighting so much, and he beat me up a bit for it. That sort of set me off, and I'd stay away from home for days at a time, sleeping in parks or kids' houses; I even slept at the school. My mother never said anything about it, in fact, she seemed happier now I was never around, and that only made things worse. I didn't understand enough to blame anyone but myself for all of it.  
  
"One day, I was climbing trees in Echo Park, and heard the ice cream truck jingling. I didn't have any money, but I got down from the tree to watch the other kids line up in front of it. I was considering beating one of them up, and stealing their ice cream, when Johnny came up to me, and offered me five bucks. He didn't say anything, just held it out, and nodded at the truck. I took the money and ran, but when I came back with my fudgesicle, he was sitting on a bench with a sketchbook in his lap, drawing. I watched him for a while, before walking over to see what he was drawing. It was me. He was putting the finishing touches on a picture of me hanging from a branch by my knees, with my shirt up around my armpits.  
  
"He gestured for me to sit down beside him, so I did. He showed me the other pictures in his book, and said I could have the one of me, if I wanted. I asked if I could have the picture of two dogs playing instead. I didn't have anything to give him in return, so I offered him a bite of my fudgesicle."  
  
At this point, Portman took a deep hit from the joint, and smiled at me shakily. "I know this sounds stupid, but that was the moment I knew I could trust him: when he took a bite of my ice cream. If he hadn't done that, I think I would have just walked away..."  
  
As it was, Portman didn't walk away, and Johnny ended up taking him out for a hamburger, and a movie. "We saw Independence Day, and afterwards, we had a serious talk about the existence of aliens. Any other adult would have been bored, or told me to shut up. Johnny was only 21 at the time, but that didn't make much difference to me; I thought all adults were the same, that they stopped growing and maturing as soon as their bodies did.  
  
"I saw him in the park a few times after that, and once he took me to an all-night diner sometime after midnight. We talked a lot, and he learned all about my mom, and Dylan, and everything. After that, he walked me home, and came with me to our apartment. I didn't want him to, but he said he had to talk to my mom. They sat together in the kitchen, and I listened from my room. I could hear him telling her that I was too young to be out alone that late in this neighbourhood, and that she should take more responsibility for me. She loaded it on thick about working overtime to pay the bills, and how I never got along with any of her boyfriends. I'm not sure exactly how it happened, but the next thing I knew, Johnny was spending the night at our place.  
  
"He took me to the fair, and showed me how to cook, and got this guy at the local gym to show me some basic fighting techniques. He made me promise I'd use them if anyone ever tried to hurt me, no matter who they were. He also told me about Ghandi, and his own views on violence, but that self-defense was separate from that. The next time mom's boyfriend hit me (she was going out with him at the same time as Johnny, unbeknownst to both of them), I hit him right back, and after that, I never had any problems standing up for myself. I think I just needed someone to tell me it was alright."  
  
I'd heard most of the stories of Portman and Johnny's first few meetings before, but I never grew tired of them. I'd make Portman recount his first experiences with Johnny's greenhouse, his psychedelic living quarters and psychotropic produce, again and again. I loved to imagine myself into these stories, as if I had been with the two of them all along, instead of only a few short months. How different things would be, if that were true. How different /I/ might be...

%&%&%&

The door to my room slammed open, revealing a dripping Portman, cleaning his ears with a towel. "Are you still in bed, you lazy shit?" he asked affectionately. "Come on, get up!"  
  
And with that, he leapt on top of me, and eventually wrestled me to my feet. "Eew, you're stinky, too. You need a shower," he mumbled, as he planted little kisses on my neck and shoulders, his arms wrapped tight around me.  
  
I leaned my head back against his shoulder and sighed. "You know, you'll have to let go of me for that to happen, Dean."  
  
"Well, then you'll just have to wait a little longer, won't you, Cecil?"  
  
He kept kissing me, and I just shut my eyes and stood there, letting all those timeless memories, like postcards from the edge of reality, fall down on me like raindrops, washing away everything else, leaving me feeling fresh, scrubbed clean, and with a long, empty road ahead of me—of us—that for the first time in my life, left me with a feeling of hope, and not of resignation or dread.  
  
I opened my eyes, and caught sight of something white hanging from one of the nails that held my Jim Morrison poster to the wall.  
  
"Hey, Portman? I think I found your underwear."  
  
Notes:  
  
I could not get any of the stars or squiggles that represent flashbacks or time lapses, to work, hence the %&%&%& thing. Sorry.  
  
The next chapter is not going to be another memory montage, but the "part I" does mean that we'll be seeing a Portman-version of this sort of thing before the story wraps. I just wanted to show the passing of time, so the stuff that happens next won't seem so abrupt. Okay, and because I love writing happy little drunken bash-love scenes, and Johnny scenes. I thought this chapter would see some Bash Brother action, but it looks like that'll have to wait till next time. I've been sitting at this computer for way too long already, so let's get down to review-responses, shall we?  
  
Cards: I've gotten the exact same response from people over my 'chasing the dragon' t-shirt. That's one of the reasons I like the phrase so much: it sounds magical. And slipping something like that past school admin always feels good. In high school, my friends and I used to eat pot-brownies in Socials class, right in front of the teacher. I loved that.  
  
NYgoldfish: Yeah, I think I combine angst with extreme fluff in a way not many others do; and I just love hearing you say my fic makes you feel. You're making ME feel all fluffy... And if it's enough to cheer you up after your Islanders lose... what better compliment could I receive? You know, my Grandma's brother, Bob Bourne, used to play for the Islanders, a defenseman, won two Cups with them, back-to-back, I think. Do you know what year that was?  
  
Pixie13: Yeah, I know updates have been few and far between; sorry about that, dear. I've been hearing lots of not-so-good stuff about this antiIRONY, but have not received a flame thus far; strange, since I think it's slash she goes after. Take no note of her; why put store in someone with a name like that? I LOVE irony! Plus, you may think this odd, but I'd sort of like to get a flame, just one. I've never gotten one before, and I think most fanfic writers, especially slash ones, have.  
  
Checkmate: Ooh, the Count of Monte Cristo! I love that book, and I remember that line, too. And another Canuck? Excellent! Here's hoping Calgary comes out on top this year, eh?  
  
Lisa14: Fantastic as usual, huh? I'm blushing! And I'm happy you think I get inside their heads; the problem is, now that I'm there, will I ever be able to get out?  
  
Schiz: Your Wolfie-pal misses you, and wants to hear from you. We'll clear a time for a phone call, okay? You'll have to post your new number to our address book! You DO have a phone, right? Perhaps a mustard-shit yellow one?  
  
hugglesbunny: Yes, she lives, lycanthrope lives. However, she is now one of the living dead, doomed to walk the earth in eternal hunger, ever on the lookout for the one thing that can satisfy her palate: human brains...  
  
Two-min-for-slashing: I've already addressed most of the points in your lovely review, and I just got your email today, so I will reply when I find the time. I must, however, publicly acknowledge my respect for your Elden- worship. I hope you enjoy this.  
  
-T-: I know you emailed me with a review once, and left a different name as well, but I can't for the life of me remember what it was. For some reason, I keep thinking Jessica Simpson, but she's a singer, isn't she? Anyway, great that you liked the 10 min later bit; I did, too, so it just goes to show how differently things affect different people.


End file.
